"PATRICIA  BRENT  SPINSTER" 


•ma 
1 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 


THE 

RAIN-GIRL 

A  ROMANCE  OF  TODAY 


BY 
THE 

AUTHOR 
OF 


"PATRICIA   BRENT, 
SPINSTER" 


NEW  ^ST  YORK 
GEORGE   H.    DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


TO 
THE  RAIN-GIRL 

You  who  know  will  understand, 
You  who  see  on  either  hand 
Tragedies  that  seem  to  say, 
"Light  of  love,"  and  "Lack-a-day." 

Spring  but  tarries  for  an  hour, 
Summer  sheds  her  golden  shower, 
Then  autumn  with  her  amber  horn, 
Gathers  all  ere  winter's  born. 

You  who  know  will  understand, 
You  who  see  on  either  hand 
Tragedies  that  seem  to  say, 
"Light  o*  love,"  and  "Lack-a-day." 


2136893 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


I.  THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE n 

II.  "THE  Two  DRAGONS  "  AND  THE  RAIN-GIRL  26 

III.  LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR    ....  46 

IV.  THE  CALL  OF  THE  RAIN-GIRL   ....  63 
V.  THE  SEARCH  BEGINS 74 

VI.  LORD  DREWITT'S  PERPLEXITIES      ...  85 

VII.  £ADY  DREWITT  SPEAKS  HER  MIND      .     .  99 

VIII.  THE  HEIRESS  INDISPOSED in 

IX.  THE  PURSUIT  TO  FOLKESTONE  ....  122 

X.  LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE  ....  134 

XI.  THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL    .      .  148 

XII.  THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES     .     ,     .     .  165 

XIII.  A  QUESTION  OF  ANKLES 183 

XIV.  THE  DANGER  LINE 195 

XV.  LONDON  AND  LORD  DREWITT     .     .     .     .  213 

XVI.  THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED 223 

XVII.  DR.  TALLIS  PRESCRIBES 240 

XVIII.  THE  DELUGE 252 

XIX.  THE  MORNING  AFTER 265 

XX.  LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM 278 

XXI.  LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR  ....  294 

vii 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE 

NATURE  discourages  eccentricity!" 
The   ridiculous  words  rang  in   Richard 
Beresford's   ears   as   he   stalked  resolutely 
along  the  rain-soaked  high-road.     They  seemed  to 
keep  time  with  the  crunch  of  his  boots  upon  the  wet 
gravel.     The  wind  picked  them  up  and,  with  a  spat- 
ter of  rain,  flung  them  full  in  his  face.     The  pack 
on  his  back  caught  the  last  word  and  thumped  it  into 
his  shoulders. 

"Nature  discourages  eccentricity!" 

Where  he  had  read  the  absurd  phrase  he  could 
not  remember,  probably  in  some  insignificant  maga- 
zine article  upon  popular  science.  That,  however, 
was  no  excuse  for  remembering  it,  and  upon  this  of 
all  days.  It  had  not  even  the  virtue  of  being  epi- 
grammatical;  it  was  just  a  dull,  stupid  catchpenny 
phrase  of  some  silly  ass  desirous  of  catching  the 
editorial  eye. 

As  he  plodded  on  through  the  rain,  he  strove  to 

ii 


12  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

confute  and  annihilate  the  wretched  thing,  to  crush 
it  by  the  heavy  artillery  of  reason.  Nature  herself 
was  eccentric,  he  told  himself.  Had  she  not  once 
at  least  sent  snow  on  Derby  Day?  Did  she  not 
ruin  with  frost  her  own  crops? 

"Na  -  ture  -  dis  •  cou  -  ra  -  ges  -  ec  -  cen  -  tri  -  ci  - 
tyl"  crunched  his  boots. 

"Ec-cen-tri-ci-ty,"  pounded  his  pack. 

"Tri-ci-ty,"  shrieked  the  wind  gleefully. 

Confound  it!  He  would  think  of  other  things; 
of  the  life  before  him,  of.  the  good  pals  who  had 
"gone  west,"  of  books  and  pictures,  of  love  and  to- 
bacco, of  romance  and  wandering,  of  all  that  made 
life  worth  while.  It  was  absurd  to  be  hypnotised 
by  a  phrase. 

No;  the  moment  his  thoughts  were  left  to  them- 
selves, they  returned  precipitately  to  the  little  Grub 
Street  absurdity.  It  clung  to  him  like  a  pursuing 
fury,  this  nonsensical,  illogical  and  peculiarly  irritat- 
ing phrase. 

"Nature  discourages  eccentricity!" 

He  strove  to  recall  all  the  eccentricities  of  Na- 
ture of  which  he  had  ever  heard.  Confute  the  ac- 
cursed thing  he  would  at  all  costs. 

It  was  by  way  of  fat  women  and  five  legged  sheep 
that  he  eventually  stumbled  across  his  own  family. 
In  spite  of  the  rain  and  of  his  own  detestably  un- 
comfortable condition,  he  laughed  aloud.  Every 
relative  he  had  was  eccentric;  yet  heaven  knew 
they  had  not  lacked  encouragement! 

From  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  a  miserable- 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE  13 

looking  white  horse  gazed  at  him  wonderingly. 
Truly  these  humans  were  strange  beings  to  find  mat- 
ter for  laughter  on  such  a  day. 

Yes,  his  relatives  were  eccentric  enough  to  think 
him  mad.  There  was  Aunt  Caroline,  for  instance, 
who  rather  prided  herself  upon  being  different  from 
other  people;  yet  she  had  married  a  peer;  was  ex- 
tremely wealthy,  and  as  exclusive  as  a  colony  of 
Agapemones.  No  one  could  say  that  she  had  been 
discouraged. 

The  thought  of  Caroline,  Lady  Drewitt,  brought 
Beresford  back  to  his  present  situation,  and  the 
cause  of  his  struggling  along  a  country  road  in  the 
face  of  a  south-westerly  wind,  that  threw  the  rain 
against  his  face  in  vicious  little  slaps,  on  the  most 
pitifully  unspring-like  first  of  May  he  ever  remem- 
bered. Again,  the  day  brought  him  back  to  his 
starting  point:  "Nature  discourages  eccentricity." 
In  short,  Lady  Drewitt,  the  weather  and  the  phrase 
all  seemed  so  mixed  up  and  confused  as  to  defy  en- 
tire disentanglement. 

The  weather  could  be  dismissed  in  a  few  words. 
It  was  atrocious,  depressing,  English.  Ahead 
stretched  the  rain-soddened  high-road,  flanked  on 
either  side  by  glistening  hedges,  from  which  the 
water  fell  in  solemn  and  reluctant  drops.  Heavy 
clouds  swung  their  moody  way  across  the  sky,  just 
clearing  the  tree-tops.  Groups  of  miserable  cat- 
tle huddled  together  under  hedges,  or  beneath  trees 
that  gave  no  shelter  from  the  pitiless  rain.  Here 
and  there  some  despairing  beast  lay  down  in  the 


14  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

open,  as  if  refusing  to  continue  the  self-decepdon. 
The  tree  trunks  glistened  like  beavers;  for  the  tain 
beat  relentlessly  through  their  thin  foliage,  in 
short,  the  world  was  wet  to  the  skin,  and  Ricnard 
Beresford  with  the  world. 

His  thoughts  drifted  back  to  the  little  family 
dinner-party  at  Drewitt  House,  and  the  bomb-shell 
he  had  launched  into  its  midst.  It  was  his  aunt's 
enquiry  as  to  when  he  proposed  returning  to  the 
Foreign  Office  that  had  been  the  cause  of  all  the 
trouble. 

His  simple  statement  that  he  had  done  with  the 
Foreign  Office  and  all  its  ways,  and  intended  to  go 
for  a  long  walking-tour,  had  been  received  with  con- 
sternation. He  smiled  at  the  recollection  of  the 
scene;  Lady  Drewitt's  anger,  his  cousin,  Lord 
Drewitt's  lifting  of  his  eyebrows,  the  snap  in  Ed- 
ward Seymour's  ferret-like  little  eyes,  Mrs.  Ed- 
ward's look  of  frightened  interrogation  directed  at 
Lady  Drewitt,  and  her  subsequent  endeavour  to  mir- 
ror her  aunt's  disapproval.  It  was  all  so  comical, 
so  characteristic. 

He  had  found  it  impossible  to  explain  what  had 
led  up  to  his  decision.  He  could  not  tell  Lady 
Drewitt  and  the  Seymours  that  the  trenches  had 
revolutionised  his  Tdeas,  that  a  sort  of  intellectual 
Bolshevism  had  taken  possession  of  him,  that  he 
now  took  a  more  detached  and  impersonal  view  of 
life,  that  things  which  had  mattered  before  were  not 
the  things  which  mattered  now.  They  would  not 
have  understood. 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE  15 

H  could  not  explain  that  "out  there"  everything 
had  taken  on  a  new  value  and  new  standards  had 
been  set  up,  that  in  a  flash  the  clock  had  been  put 
back  centuries;  food  and  life  alone  had  mattered. 
A  few  yards  away  Death  had  lain  in  wait  to  flick 
them  out  with  a  disdainful  finger,  and  every  man, 
some  consciously,  others  instinctively,  was  asking 
himself  the  great  riddle — Why? 

Instead  of  endeavouring  to  explain  all  this, 
Beresford  had  contented  himself  by  saying  that  the 
War  had  made  a  difference,  had  somehow  changed 
him,  made  him  restless.  He  had  been  purposely 
vague,  remembering  Lady  Drewitt's  habit  of  clutch- 
ing at  a  phrase  as  a  peg  for  her  scorn  and  ridicule. 
He  had  been  conscious  of  making  out  a  very  poor 
case  for  himself,  and  mentally  he  cursed  his  cousin, 
Lord  Drewitt,  for  his  silence.  He  at  least  must 
have  understood,  he  had  been  through  it  all. 

Lady  Drewitt  listened  with  obvious  impatience. 
At  last  she  had  broken  out  with: 

"Richard,  you're  a  fool."  The  words  had  been 
rapped  out  with  conviction  rather  than  acrimony. 

"Logically  I  suppose  I  am,  Aunt  Caroline,"  he 
had  replied,  as  he  signalled  to  Drewitt  to  circulate 
the  port  in  his  direction. 

"What  are  you  going  to  live  on?"  Lady  Drewitt 
demanded.  "You've  no  money  of  your  own." 

"Perhaps  he  proposes  to  borrow  from  you,  Aunt," 
Lord  Drewitt  had  said,  as  he  lighted  another  ciga- 
rette. 

Lady  Drewitt  ignored  the  remark. 


16  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"But,  Richard,  I  don't  understand."  Mrs.  Ed- 
ward Seymour  had  puckered  up  her  pretty,  washed- 
out  face.  "Where  are  you  going  to,  and  what  shall 
you  do?" 

"He  wants  to  become  a  vagabond,"  snapped  Lady 
Drewitt,  "tramping  from  town  to  town,  like  those 
dreadful  men  we  saw  last  week  when  motoring  to 
Peterborough." 

"I  see;"  but  there  was  nothing  in  Mrs.  Edward's 
tone  suggestive  of  enlightenment. 

"It's  the  war,"  announced  Edward  Seymour,  a 
peevish-looking  little  man  with  no  chin  and  a  fore- 
head that  reached  almost  to  the  back  of  his  neck, 
who  by  virtue  of  a  post  at  the  Ministry  of  Muni- 
tions had  escaped  the  comb  of  conscription. 

Lord  Drewitt  screwed  his  glass  into  his  eye  and 
gazed  at  Seymour  with  interest. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Edward,"  snapped  Lady 
Drewitt;  and  Mrs.  Edward  Seymour  looked  across 
at  her  husband,  disapproval  in  her  eye.  It  was  hid- 
den from  none  that  the  Seymours  were  "after  the 
old  bird's  money,"  as  Jimmy  Pentland  put  it.  It 
was  he  who  had  christened  them  "the  Vultures,"  a 
name  that  had  stuck. 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do  when  you  have  spent 
all  your  money?"  Lady  Drewitt  had  next  demanded. 

"In  all  probability,"  said  Lord  Drewitt,  "he  will 
get  run  in  and  come  to  us  to  bail  him  out.  Per- 
sonally I  hate  police-courts.  I  often  wonder  why 
they  instruct  magistrates  in  law  at  the  expense  of 
hygiene." 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE  17 

Lady  Drewitt  had  looked  across  the  table  with 
a  startled  expression  in  her  eyes.  It  had  suddenly 
dawned  upon  her  that  unpleasant  consequences  to 
herself  might  ensue  from  this  rash  determination 
on  the  part  of  her  nephew  to  seek  his  future  happi- 
ness amidst  by-ways  and  hedges. 

"It  seems  to  me "  began  Edward  Seymour, 

in  a  thin,  protesting  voice. 

"Never  mind  what  it  seems  to  you,"  said  Lady 
Drewitt,  whereat  Edward  Seymour  had  collapsed, 
screwing  up  his  little  features  into  an  expression  of 
pain.  Mrs.  Edward  had  caught  him  full  in  the 
centre  of  the  left  shin  with  the  sharply  pointed  toe 
of  her  shoe. 

At  Drewitt  House  Mrs.  Edward's  feet  were  never 
still  when  her  husband  was  within  range.  Lord 
Drewitt  had  once  suggested  that  he  should  wear 
shin-guards,  Mrs.  Edward's  methods  of  wireless 
telegraphy  being  notorious.  Sometimes  she  missed 
her  spouse,  as  other  guests  knew  to  their  cost. 
Once  she  had  landed  full  on  the  tibia  of  a  gouty 
colonial  bishop,  whose  language  in  a  native  dialect 
had  earned  for  him  the  respect  of  every  man  pres- 
ent, when  later  translated  with  adornments  by  one 
of  the  company. 

"If  Edward  had  spent  days  and  nights  in  the 
trenches,"  Lord  Drewitt  had  said,  as,  with  great 
intentness,  he  peeled  a  walnut,  "he  would  under- 
stand why  Richard  shrinks  from  the  Foreign  Of- 
fice." 

"It  would  be  impossible,"  Beresford  said,  "to  set- 


18  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

tie  down  again  to  the  monotony  of  a  life  of  ten  till 
four  after — after  the  last  four  years." 

"Unless,  of  course,  you  happen  to  be  a  foun- 
tain," Lord  Drewitt  had  interpolated,  without  look- 
ing up  from  his  walnut. 

"I  said  it  was  the  war,"  broke  in  Edward  Sey- 
mour, looking  triumphantly  across  at  his  wife,  em- 
boldened by  the  knowledge  that  his  legs  were 
tucked  safely  away  beneath  his  chair. 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  do?"  Lady  Drewitt 
had  demanded,  with  the  air  of  one  who  knew  she 
had  propounded  a  conundrum  to  which  there  is  no 
answer. 

"Oh,"  said  Beresford  airily,  "I  shall  just  walk  into 
the  sun.  You  see,  Aunt  Caroline,"  he  said,  bend- 
ing forward,  "I've  only  got  one  life  and " 

"And  how  many  do  you  suppose  I  have?"  Lady 
Drewitt  had  demanded  scornfully,  snapping  her  jaws 
in  a  peculiarly  unpleasant  way  she  had. 

"I  repeat,  Aunt  Caroline,"  he  had  proceeded  im- 
perturbably,  "that  I  have  only  one  life,  and  rather 
than  go  back  to  the  P.O.  I  prefer  to " 

"Seek  nature  in  her  impregnable  fastnesses,"  sug- 
gested Lord  Drewitt,  looking  across  at  his  cousin 
with  a  smile. 

"Impregnable  fiddlesticks,"  Lady  Drewitt  had 
cried  derisively,  "he  will  get  his  feet  wet  and  die  of 
bronchitis  or  pneumonia." 

"And  we  shall  have  to  go  down  to  the  inquest," 
said  Lord  Drewitt,  "and  lunch  execrably  at  some 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE  19 

local  inn.  No,  Richard,  you  mustn't  do  it.  I  can- 
not risk  our  aunt's  digestion." 

Lady  Drewitt  always  discouraged  the  idea  that 
life  contained  either  sentiment  or  ideals.  To  be  in- 
tangible in  conversation  with  her  was  impossible. 
She  admitted  of  no  distinction  between  imagination 
and  lying.  To  her  all  extremes  were  foolish,  opti- 
mists and  pessimists  being  equally  culpable.  She 
pooh-poohed  anything  and  everything  that  was  not 
directly  or  indirectly  connected  with  Burke  (once 
she  would  have  admitted  "L'Almanach  de  Gotha"). 
Burke  to  her  girlish  eyes  had  always  been  the  open 
sesame  to  happiness. 

As  for  the  Seymours,  they  were  merely  Lady 
Drewitt's  echoes.  Lord  Drewitt  had  once  said  they 
reminded  him  of  St.  Paul's  definition  of  love. 

As  Beresford  smoked  his  own  cigarettes  and 
drank  Lady  Drewitt's  excellent  port,  he  was  con- 
scious that  there  were  a  hundred  and  one  reasons 
that  he  might  have  advanced  to  any  one  but  his  aunt. 
It  would  have  been  foolish  to  tell  her  that  within 
him  had  been  awakened  a  spirit  of  romance  and  ad- 
venture, that  the  wanderlust  was  upon  him. 

She  would  merely  have  said  that  he  must  see  Sir 
Edmund  Tobbitt,  her  pet  physician,  and  have  for- 
bidden him  to  use  German  words  in  her  presence. 

"And  how  do  you  propose  to  live  whilst  you  are 
pursuing  your  ridiculous  Nature,  exposing  yourself 
to  all  sorts  of  weather?"  Lady  Drewitt  had  next  de- 
manded. 

"Well,   I've   got  nearly  two   hundred   pounds," 


20  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Beresford  had  replied,  "and  by  the  time  I've  sold 
my  books  and  things  I  shall  have  fully  another  hun- 
dred." 

"You're  going  to  sell  everything,"  gasped  Mrs. 
Edward  Seymour. 

"Yes,  all  but  the  clothes  I  wear  and  an  extra  suit 
I  shall  carry  with  me,"  Beresford  had  smilingly 
retorted,  enjoying  the  look  of  consternation  upon  his 
cousin's  face.  "When  I  leave  London  there  will 
not  remain  in  it  a  shilling's  worth  of  my  property." 

"Richard,  you're  a  fool."  Lady  Drewitt  seemed 
to  find  comfort  in  the  phrase.  "Your  poor  dear 

mother  was  a  fool  too.  She "  Lady  Drewitt 

broke  off  suddenly  and  gazed  searchlngly  at  her 
nephew. 

"When  did  this  ridiculous  idea  first  take  pos- 
session of  you?"  she  had  demanded,  with  the  air 
of  a  counsel  for  the  prosecution  about  to  make  a 
great  point. 

"I've  been  a  vagabond  all  my  life,"  he  had  con- 
fessed with  a  smile.  "I've  never  been  really  re- 
spectable, you  know." 

Lady  Drewitt' s  jaws  had  met  with  a  snap.  Lord 
Drewitt  gazed  at  her  with  interest.  Neither  he 
nor  Beresford  had  ever  permitted  themselves  to  be 
overawed  by  their  aunt.  They  were  the  only  two 
relatives  she  possessed  who  were  not  ill  at  ease  in 
her  presence. 

"You're  Irish,"  she  continued  relentlessly,  ad- 
dressing Beresford  in  a  voice  that  savoured  of  ac- 
cusation. 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE  21 

"Half  Irish,"  Beresford  had  corrected. 

"I  remember  now,"  there  was  a  marked  sol- 
emnity in  her  voice,  "a  week  before  you  were  born, 
your  poor  dear  mother  was  greatly  frightened  by 
a  tramp  who  had  managed  to  get  into  the  garden." 

"Then,"  Lord  Drewitt  had  said,  "Richard  must 
not  be  blamed.  Like  Napoleon,  he  is  clearly  a  man 
of  destiny." 

"But,"  said  Edward  Seymour,  screwing  up  his 
face  as  was  his  wont  when  asking  a  question,  "I 
don't  see  why  being  in  the  trenches  should  make 
Richard  want  to  become  a  tramp." 

"You  wouldn't,  my  dear  Teddy,"  Lord  Drewitt 
had  said  softly.  "You  see  it's  an  Ai  question  and 
you  are  a  €3  man." 

Mrs.  Edward  had  flashed  a  vindictive  look  at 
Lord  Drewitt,  then  with  a  swift  change  of  expres- 
sion she  turned  to  Lady  Drewitt. 

"Perhaps  now  that  Richard  knows  how — how  it 
would  pain  you,  Aunt  Caroline,  he  won't " 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Cecily,"  snapped  Lady  Drewitt; 
whereat  Edward  Seymour  had  looked  across  at  his 
wife  with  a  leer  of  triumph. 

That  night  as  they  had  walked  away  from  Drewitt 
House,  Beresford  had  explained  more  fully  to  Lord 
Drewitt  what  had  led  up  to  his  decision  to  cut  adrift 
from  the  old  life. 

"My  dear  Richard,"  he  had  said  with  a  sigh  of 
regret,  "I  wish  I  had  the  Aunt's  courage  and  your 


convictions." 


Beresford  smiled  at  the  thought  of  that  evening. 


22  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

He  paused  to  light  his  pipe.  He  looked  about  him, 
hoping  to  find  somewhere  a  break  in  the  clouds  giv- 
ing promise  of  fine  weather — for  the  morrow.  No ; 
Nature's  frown  showed  no  sign  of  lifting.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  decided  never  to  attempt  the  drying 
up  of  this  drenched  and  dripping  landscape. 

He  turned  once  more  and  faced  the  wind  and 
rain.  His  thoughts  returned  to  his  family.  He 
had  always  been  something  of  a  problem  to  them. 
As  a  standard  by  which  to  measure  failure,  he  had 
been  not  without  his  uses.  He  had  passed  through 
Winchester  and  Oxford  without  attracting  to  him- 
self particular  attention,  enviable  or  otherwise.  He 
had  missed  his  cricket  "blue"  through  that  miracle 
of  misfortune,  a  glut  of  talent,  and  he  had  taken  a 
moderately  good  degree.  He  had  come  down  from 
Oxford  and  the  clouds,  loving  sport,  ~rt,  litera- 
ture, and  above  all  beauty. 

Mrs.  Edward  Seymour  had  once  remarked  plain- 
tively to  Lady  Drewitt  that  it  seemed  so  odd  that 
a  man  who  had  nearly  got  his  cricket  "blue"  should 
be  fond  of  roses  and  wall-papers,  poetry  and  sky- 
larks. "It  seemed,"  she  ventured  to  add,  "not 
quite  nice."  .Whereat  Lady  Drewitt  had  besought 
her  not  to  be  a  fool ;  but  to  remember  that  the  Bat- 
tle of  Waterloo  was  won  on  the  playing-fields  of 
Eton.  Mrs.  Edward  Seymour  had  gone  away 
sorely  puzzled  as  to  her  Aunt's  exact  meaning;  but 
not  daring  to  enquire. 

Coming  down  from  Oxford,  Beresford  had  been 
shot  unprotesting  into  the  Foreign  Office,  which  he 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE  23 

had  accepted  as  part  of  the  enigma  of  life  until  that 
fateful  August  4th,  1914,  when  he  had  enlisted. 

That  was  four  and  a  half  years  ago,  and  now, 
having  thoroughly  earned  the  disapproval  of  his 
aunt,  he  had  turned  his  face  to  the  open  road,  a 
vagabond;  but  a  free  man.  The  blue  sky  would 
be  above  him;  he  had  pictured  it  all,  the  white  flecks 
of  cloud  swimming  across  the  sun  day  by  day,  and 
the  winking  of  the  stars  by  night.  There  would  be 
the  apple  and  the  plum-blossom,  the  pear  and  the 
cherry.  There  would  be  the  birds,  the  lowing  of 
cattle  and  the  bleating  of  sheep.  Then  there  would 
be  the  voices  of  the  haymakers,  the  throb  of  the 
mowing-machines  and  the  rumble  of  the  heavily 
laden  wains,  as  they  grumbled  their  way  to  the  rick- 
yard.  The  night  sounds,  the  sudden  whirr  of  a 
frightened  pheasant,  the  hoot  of  some  marauding 
owl,  the  twitter  of  a  dreaming  thrush;  he  had  real- 
ised them  all,  expected  them  all — everything  but 
the  rain.  • 

He  had  foreseen  rain,  it  is  true,  the  storm,  the 
flood  even;  but  they  had  always  presented  them- 
selves to  his  mind's  eye  with  himself  safely  quar- 
tered in  some  comfortable  old  inn. 

"Nature  discourages  eccentricity." 

Nature  was  discouraging  him  by  flooding  the  earth 
on  the  first  day  of  his  adventure. 

"I  wonder  what  Aunt  Caroline  would  say  if  she 
saw  me  now?"  he  muttered. 

He  laughed  aloud  at  the  thought. 

Suddenly    he    stopped,    not    only    laughing,    but 


24  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

walking,  and  stood  staring  in  astonishment  at  a  gate 
that  lay  a  few  yards  back  from  the  roadside. 

In  an  instant  Lady  Drewitt,  Nature,  eccentricity 
and  the  weather  were  banished  from  his  thoughts. 
Nothing  that  his  imagination  was  capable  of  sug- 
gesting could  have  caused  him  more  astonishment 
than  what  he  saw  perched  upon  this  gate  giving  ac- 
cess to  a  wayside  meadow.  Had  it  been  a  griffin, 
a  unicorn,  or  the  Seven-Headed  Beast  of  the  Apoc- 
alypse, he  would  have  accepted  it  without  question 
as  the  natural  phenomenon  of  an  abnormal  day. 

It  was  not  a  griffin,  a  unicorn,  or  the  Beast  of 
the  Apocalypse  that  he  saw;  but  a  girl  perched  jaun- 
tily upon  the  top  bar  of  the  roadside  gate,  medita- 
tively smoking  a  cigarette.  She  seemed  indifferent 
to  the  rain,  indifferent  to  the  wretchedness  of  her 
surroundings,  indifferent  to  Beresford's  presence, 
indifferent  to  everything — she  was  merely  a  spec- 
tator. 

For  some  seconds  he  regarded  her  in  astonish- 
ment. The  trim,  grey,  tailor-made  costume,  knap- 
sack, tweed  hat  with  waterproof  covering — he  men- 
tally registered  them  all;  but  what  struck  him  most 
was  the  girl's  face.  Nondescript  but  charming,  was 
his  later  verdict;  but  now  his  whole  attention  was 
arrested  by  her  eyes.  Large  and  grey,  with  whites 
that  were  almost  blue,  and  heavy  dark  lashes,  they 
gazed  at  him  gravely,  wonderingly;  but  quite  with- 
out any  suggestion  of  curiosity. 

For  nearly  a  minute  he  stood  staring  at  her  in 
astonishment.  Then  suddenly  realising  the  rude- 


THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE  25 

ness  of  his  attitude,  he  slowly  and  reluctantly  turned 
to  the  wind  and  continued  his  way. 

"A  rain-girl,"  he  muttered.     "I  wonder  if  she 
knows  that  Nature  discourages  eccentricity?" 


CHAPTER  II 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  AND  THE  RAIN-GIRL 


DINNER  will  be  ready  in  ten  minutes,  sir." 
The  waiter  led  the  way  to  a  small  table 
on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  fireplace,  in 
which  burned  a  large  fire  surmounted  by  a  log  that 
crackled  and  spat  a  cheerful  welcome. 

"Empty!"  remarked  Beresford  as  he  looked 
round  the  dining-room. 

"It's  the  weather,  sir,"  explained  the  waiter  in 
an  apologetic  tone,  as  he  gave  a  push  to  the  log  with 
his  boot;  then,  after  a  swift  glance  round  to  satisfy 
himself  that  everything  was  as  it  should  be,  he  with- 
drew. 

Beresford  shivered.  The  day's  wetting  had 
chilled  him.  What  a  day  it  had  been.  "The  Two 
Dragons"  was  a  godsend. 

As  he  warmed  himself  before  the  fire,  he  men- 
tally reviewed  the  events  of  the  day,  and  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  there  had  been  only  one  event, 
the  girl  on  the  gate. 

For  the  past  two  hours  her  eyes  had  entirely 
eclipsed  that  absurd  little  phrase  that  had  so  ob- 
sessed his  mind  earlier  in  the  day.  It  had  been  a 
strange  day,  he  mused,  a  day  of  greyness :  grey  sky, 

26 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  27 

grey  sheets  of  rain,  a  grey  prospect  before  him,  and 
then  that  girl's  grey  eyes.  They  had  seemed  to 
change  everything.  They  were  like  grey  fire,  seem- 
ing to  blot  out  the  other  greys,  as  the  dawn  makes 
the  stars  to  pale. 

It  was  to  him  a  new  experience  to  find  a  girl 
monopolising  his  thoughts.  The  habit  of  a  life- 
time had  been  to  place  women  somewhere  between 
dances  and  croquet.  He  had  flirted  with  them  in  a 
superficial  way,  they  had  amused  him;  but  they  had 
never  bulked  largely  in  his  life.  Tommy  Knowles 
of  "the  House"  had  once  said  that  there  was  little 
hope  for  a  country  composed  of  men  such  as  Beres- 
ford,  who  placed  runs  before  kisses,  and  saw  more 
in  a  dropped  goal  than  a  glad  eye. 

He  seemed  to  have  had  so  little  time  for  girls. 
There  had  been  games  to  play,  books  to  read,  pic- 
tures to  see,  and  such  a  host  of  other  interests  that 
women  had  been  rather  crowded  out.  Somehow 
they  never  seemed  to  strike  an  interesting  note  in 
conversation.  It  was  invariably  about  the  plays 
they  had  seen,  the  band  that  was  playing,  the  quality 
of  the  floor  upon  which  they  were  dancing,  common 
friends,  or  else  gush  about  George  Bernard  Shaw, 
or  Maeterlinck. 

He  fell  to  wondering  what  Aunt  Caroline  or  the 
Edward  Seymours  would  have  thought  of  her. 
They  regarded  him  as  mad  because  he  preferred  the 
open  road  to  the  Foreign  Office ;  but  if  they  were  to 
see  a  girl  sitting  on  a  gate  in  the  rain,  smoking  a 
cigarette  with  apparent  enjoyment,  they  would  in. 


28  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

all  probability  question,  not  only  her  reason,  but  her 
sense  of  delicacy. 

The  Rain-Girl  (as  Beresford  mentally  called  her) 
obviously  possessed  character;  but  why  was  she 
tramping  alone  upon  an  English  high-road,  particu- 
larly when  the  heavens  were  drenching  the  earth 
with  cold  and  cheerless  rain?  It  was  a  queer  thing 
for  a  girl  to  do,  queer  beyond  analysis  or  compre- 
hension. What  would  she  have  done  had  he  spoken 
to  her?  In  all  probability  have  snubbed  him;  yet 
surely  two  strangers  might  pass  the  time  of  day  upon 
the  highway,  even  though  they  were  of  opposite 
sexes. 

It  had  been  an  absurd  sort  of  day,  Beresford  de- 
cided, and  the  sooner  it  were  blotted  from  his  mem- 
ory the  better;  still  he  would  like  to  see  her  again. 
Then  he  fell  to  speculating  as  to  which  direction  she 
had  taken. 

Would  dinner  never  be  ready?  Again  he  shiv- 
ered, in  spite  of  the  heat  of  the  fire.  He  would  be 
all  right,  he  told  himself,  as  soon  as  he  had  eaten 
something.  That  waiter  was  a  liar.  More  than 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  he  had  prom- 
ised dinner  in  ten  minutes.  He  rang  the  bell.  A 
few  seconds  later  the  door  opened. 

"Will  dinner  be  long?"  he  enquired  from  where 
he  stood  facing  the  fire. 

"They  tell  me  it  is  ready  now." 

He  span  round  with  automatic  suddenness,  and 
found  himself  gazing  into  the  same  grey  eyes  that, 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  29 

for  the  last  two  hours,  seemed  to  have  occupied  his 
thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else. 

"The  Rain-Girl!"  The  words  seemed  to  come 
involuntarily.  Then  he  added  in  confusion,  "I — 
er — beg  your  pardon.  I — I  thought  it  was — I  had 

just  rung,  I "  Then  he  lapsed  into  silence  and 

stood  staring. 

"I  quite  understand,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  of 
perfect  self-possession,  as  she  approached  the  fire. 

Yes;  it  certainly  was  the  Rain-Girl;  but  how 
changed.  Her  dusky  hair,  which  grew  low  down 
on  her  forehead  and  temples,  was  daintily  dressed, 
and  she  looked  very  slim  and  shapely  in  a  simple 
gown  of  some  nondescript  colour  between  a  brown 
and  a  grey,  which  clung  in  simple  folds  about  her. 
As  she  stood  holding  out  her  hands  to  the  warmth 
of  the  fire,  he  recovered  from  his  surprise.  Obvi- 
ously the  curious  happenings  of  the  day  were  not 
yet  ended. 

Deciding  that  it  was  embarrassing  for  two  peo- 
ple to  stand  at  the  same  fire  without  speaking, 
Beresford  retired  to  his  table  just  as  the  waiter  en- 
tered with  the  soup.  Seeing  the  Rain-Girl,  the 
waiter  hurried  across  to  the  table  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fireplace  and  withdrew  the  chair  invitingly. 
She  seated  herself  with  a  smile  of  acknowledgment. 

She  was  evidently  not  inclined  to  be  sociable, 
Beresford  decided.  Surely  two  people  dining  alone 
in  the  same  inn  might  exchange  a  few  common- 
places; but  she  seemed  determined  to  discourage  any 
attempt  towards  friendliness.  All  through  the 


30  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

soup  Beresford  chafed  at  British  insular  prejudice. 
What  good  had  the  war  done  if  it  had  not  broken 
down  this  foolish  barrier?  Here  were  two  people 
alone  in  an  inn-parlour,  yet  they  were  doomed  to 
dine  at  separate  tables.  He  was  piqued,  too,  at  the 
girl's  obvious  indifference  to  his  presence,  a  fact  of 
which  he  had  assured  himself  by  surreptitious 
glances  in  her  direction. 

As  the  meal  progressed,  he  became  more  and 
more  incensed  at  her  supremely  unreasonable  at- 
titude. What  right  had  she  to  consign  him  to  a  dull 
and  tedious  dinner?  Surely  the  day  had  been  a 
miserable  enough  affair  without  this  totally  unnec- 
essary insistence  of  mid-Victorian  prejudice  and  the 
segregation  of  the  sexes.  It  was  absurd,  provin- 
cial, suburban,  parochial,  in  fact  it  was  most 
damnably  irritating,  he  decided. 

What  would  she  do  when  the  meal  was  over? 
Draw  up  to  the  fire,  go  to  the  smoking-room,  or 
clear  off  to  bed?  Could  he  not  do  something  to 
precipitate  a  crisis?  But  what?  If  he  were  a 
woman  he  might  faint;  but  he  could  not  call  to  mind 
ever  having  read  of  a  hero  of  romance  who  fainted, 
even  for  the  purpose  of  making  the  heroine's  ac- 
quaintance. He  might  choke,  be  seized  with  a  con- 
vulsion, develop  signs  of  insanity.  What  would  she 
do  then,  this  self-possessed  young  woman?  Ring 
for  the  waiter  most  likely. 

Gradually  there  became  engendered  in  his  mind 
a  dull  resentment  at  her  attitude  of  splendid  isola- 
tion. She  evidently  preferred  solitude,  enjoyed  it 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  31 

in  fact.  He  would  indulge  her  by  going  to  the 
smoking-room  as  soon  as  he  had  finished.  In  spite 
of  this  decision,  he  continued  to  watch  her  covertly, 
noticing  how  little  she  ate.  He  himself  was  eating 
practically  nothing;  he  had  no  appetite.  Had  they 
both  caught  a  chill?  What  was  the  waiter  think- 
ing as  he  took  away  plates  containing  food  little 
more  than  tasted?  It  was  like  a  Charles  Dana 
Gibson  picture,  but  for  the  absence  of  the  little  cupid 
with  an  arrow  fitted  to  his  bow. 

It  was  ridiculous. 

Beresford  pushed  back  his  chair  with  some  os-i 
tentation  and  walked  towards  the  door.  She  had 
spoiled  the  soup,  rendered  insipid  the  fish  and  made 
detestably  unpalatable  the  joint — in  short  she  had 
spoiled  everything.  He  would  take  coffee  in  the 
smoking-room,  there  was  a  large  fire  there  and — it 
was  strange  how  thoroughly  chilled  he  was.  Yes, 
he  would  clear  out,  perhaps  she  would  breakfast 
early  in  the  morning  and  take  her  departure  before 
he  was  down.  At  the  door  he  turned  slightly  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  her  table.  No,  she  had  not  even 
looked  up. 

He  closed  the  door  and,  walking  across  to  the 
smoking-room,  threw  himself  into  a  comfortable 
chair  by  the  roaring  fire,  rang  for  coffee  and  pro- 
ceeded to  light  his  pipe  and  smoke  the  Rain-Girl 
out  of  his  thoughts. 

Presently  the  waiter  entered  with  the  coffee,  as 
Beresford  judged  by  the  click  of  crockery.  The 
man  placed  a  table  in  front  of  the  fire  on  Beres- 


32  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

ford's  left ;  then,  putting  upon  it  the  tray,  he  quietly 
withdrew. 

Yes,  coffee  would  be  good  on  a  night  like  this, 
Beresford  decided  as  he  turned  to  the  tray,  where, 
to  his  surprise,  he  found  two  cups. 

"What  the "  then  he  suddenly  realised  that 

his  late  companion  at  dinner,  who  was  not  a  com- 
panion at  all,  was  probably  also  taking  coffee  in  the 
smoking-room.  Here  was  a  fine  point  of  etiquette, 
he  decided.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait. 
He  was  curious  to  see  if  this  linking  together  of  their 
coffees  would  cause  her  to  unbend.  Fate  was  tak- 
ing a  hand  in  the  affair. 

It  was  obviously  impossible  to  pour  out  his  own 
coffee  and  leave  her  the  remainder.  Should  he  ring 
for  the  waiter?  No,  the  coffee  should  act  as  mas- 
ter of  the  ceremonies  and  bridge  the  gulf  between 
them.  Placing  the  coffee-pot  and  the  milk-jug  on 
the  hearth,  he  waited,  substituting  a  cigarette  for 
his  briar,  lest  its  rich,  juicy  note  might  prove  un- 
musical to  feminine  ears.  For  ten  minutes  he 
waited.  Had  the  waiter  merely  made  a  mistake  in 
bringing  two  cups  instead  of  one?  Possibly  at  this 
very  moment  she  was  enjoying  her  coffee  in  the  din- 
ing-room. After  all  perhaps  there  was  only 
enough  for  one.  Leaning  forward,  he  picked  up 
the  coffee-pot,  lifted  the  lid  and  peered  in.  It  was 
full. 

As  he  raised  his  eyes  from  the  contemplation 
of  the  contents  of  the  coffee-pot,  it  was  to  meet  those 
of  the  Rain-Girl  gazing  quizzically  down  at  him. 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  33 

He  started  back,  nearly  dropping  the  coffee-pot,  and 
managed  to  scramble  to  his  feet,  coffee-pot  in  hand, 
conscious  that  he  had  flushed  as  if  caught  in  some 
illicit  act.  This  girl  certainly  had  a  curious  habit 
of  appearing  at  odd  and  dramatic  moments. 

"I  was  looking  to  see  if  it  was  coffee  for  one  or 
coffee  for  two,"  he  explained. 

She  looked  at  him  gravely,  obviously  a  little  puz- 
zled; then,  catching  sight  of  the  two  cups  upon  the 
tray,  she  smiled. 

"How  stupid  of  him,"  she  said,  "and  you've 
waited?"  Her  eyebrows  were  lifted  in  interroga- 
tion. 

"I  was  just  investigating,"  said  Beresford,  feel- 
ing more  at  ease  now  that  he  was  able  to  explain. 
"It  was  a  sort  of  game.  If  there  was  enough  only 
for  one,  I  would  ignore  the  second  cup;  if  for  two, 
I  would  wait." 

She  smiled  again  and  sank  into  the  chair  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  fire,  holding  out  her  hands  to  the 
blaze. 

Beresford  stood  looking  down  at  her,  the  coffee- 
pot still  in  his  hand. 

She  seemed  entirely  to  have  forgotten  his  pres- 
ence. She  certainly  was  a  most  amazing  creature, 
he  decided;  but  that  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
be  done  out  of  his  coffee. 

"Do  you  take  it  black  or  with  milk?"  he  enquired 
in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  cried,  looking  at  him  with  a 
start,  "I— I " 


-34  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

He  smiled  down  at  her  and  proceeded  to  fill  the 
cups.  "Did  you  say  black?" 

"Please." 

Lifting  the  tray  and  turning  round  he  found  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  him.  With  a  smile  of  thanks  she 
took  a  cup  and  dropped  into  it  two  lumps  of  sugar. 
She  was  still  regarding  him  with  serious  eyes. 

"Didn't  you  pass  me  on  the  road  this  afternoon?" 
she  asked  as  he  resumed  his  seat. 

"With  reluctance,  yes." 

"With  reluctance?"  she  repeated. 

"I  wanted  to  know  why  you  were  sitting  on  a 
gate  on  such  a  day,  apparently  enjoying  it  and, 
frankly,  I've  been  wondering  about  it  ever  since. 
May  I  smoke?"  he  concluded. 

She  smiled  her  permission  as,  opening  a  bag  that 
hung  from  her  wrist,  she  drew  out  a  cigarette-case. 
"But  why  shouldn't  any  one  want  to  sit  on  a  gate  in 
the  rain?"  she  queried  as  he  held  a  match  to  her  ciga- 
rette. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  confessed,  "except  that  no 
one  seems  to  enjoy  the  rain  just  for  the  rain's  sake." 

"That's  true,"  she  said  dreamily.  "I  love  the 
rain,  and  I'm  sorry  for  it." 

"Sorry  for  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "so  few  people  find  pleasure 
in  the  rain.  I've  never  heard  any  one  speak  well 
of  it  in  this  country.  Farmers  do  sometimes, 
but "  she  paused. 

"There's  generally  either  too  much  or  too  lit- 
tle," he  suggested. 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  35 

She  nodded  brightly.  "In  some  countries  the 
rain  is  looked  upon  almost  as  a  god." 

"I  suppose  it's  a  matter  of  whether  it  gives  you 
vegetables  or  rheumatism,"  he  said  as  he  lighted  a 
second  cigarette. 

She  looked  up  quickly;  then,  with  a  little  gurgling 
laugh,  she  nodded. 

"In  any  case  I  like  to  sit  and  listen  to  it,"  she 
said,  "and  I  love  tramping  in  the  rain." 

Beresford  regarded  her  curiously.  What  a 
queer  sort  of  girl  and  what  eyes,  they  were  won- 
derful. Behind  their  limpid  and  serious  greyness 
there  lurked  a  something  that  puzzled  him.  They 
held  wonderful  possibilities. 

"Personally  I  think  less  of  the  rain  than  of  my 
own  comfort,"  he  confessed. 

"Auntie  always  says  that  I'm  a  little  mad,"  she 
said  with  the  air  of  one  desiring  to  be  just.  "Some- 
times she  omits  the  'little.' ' 

"That's  rather  like  my  Aunt  Caroline,"  he  said, 
"she  holds  the  same  view  about  me.  She  calls  me 
a  fool.  It  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  Directness 
is  her  strong  point." 

"I  suppose  we  all  appear  a  little  mad  to  our 
friends,"  said  the  Rain-Girl  with  a  smile. 

"Aunt  Caroline's  not  a  friend,  she's  a  relative," 
he  hastened  to  explain. 

The  girl  smiled  as  she  gazed  at  the  spiral  of 
smoke  rising  from  her  cigarette. 

"I'm  always  a  little  sorry  for  outraged  rela- 
tives," she  said. 


36  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I'm  not,"  with  decision.  "Because  they've  got 
no  tails  to  wag  themselves,  they  object  to  our  wag- 
ging ours." 

"But  hasn't  the  last  four  years  changed  all  that?" 
she  asked. 

"You  can  walk  down  Piccadilly  during  the  Sea- 
son in  a  cap  and  a  soft  collar,"  conceded  Beresford, 
"but  that  scarcely  implies  emancipation." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  she  said  smilingly. 

"But  a  change  en  masse  doesn't  imply  the  growth 
of  individuality,"  he  persisted.  "If  all  the  potatoes 
in  the  world  suddenly  took  it  into  their  heads  to  be- 
come red,  or  all  the  cabbages  blue,  we  should  merely 
remark  the  change  and  promptly  become  accus- 
tomed to  it." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  and  he  noticed 
a  slight  twitching  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
"You  mean  that  I'm  a  red  potato,  or  a  blue  cab- 
bage." 

He  laughed.  This  girl  was  singularly  easy  to 
talk  to. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  something  of  a  red  potato  my- 
self," he  confessed.  "It's  only  a  few  days  ago  that 
my  aunt  told  me  so.  She  expressed  it  differently; 
but  no  doubt  that  was  what  she  meant." 

"Oh;  but  I  have  to  bleach  again  in  a  few  days," 
she  said.  "Within  a  week  I  have  to  meet  auntie 
in  London,  and  then  I  shall  become  afraid  of  the 
rain  because  of  my  frocks  and  hats."  She  made  a 
moue  of  disgust;  then,  catching  Beresford's  eye,  she 
laughed. 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  37 

"Do  you  live  in  London?"  he  asked,  grasping  at 
this  chance  of  finding  out  something  about  her. 

"We're  going  there  for  the  Season,"  she  said,  "to 
a  hotel  of  all  places." 

"May  I  ask  which?"  inquired  Beresford,  seiz- 
ing this  opportunity  with  avidity.  "I  know  most  of 
them,"  he  added  lamely. 

"The  Ritz-Carlton."     She  shuddered. 

"I've  always  heard  it  quite  well-spoken  of,"  he 
said  with  mock  seriousness. 

"Ugh !"  she  grimaced.  "I  so  dislike  all  that;  but 
auntie  insists." 

"She  is  conventional?"  he  suggested. 

"As  conventional  as  the  suburbs.  I'm  supposed 
to  be  with  friends  in  Yorkshire  now,"  she  added  with 
the  smile  of  a  mischievous  child.  "If  she  coulcl 
see  me  here,  she  would  take  to  her  bed  with  an  at- 
tack of  nerves.  Poor  auntie !  Sometimes  I  am 
quite  sorry  for  her,"  and  again  the  little  gurgling 
laugh  belied  her  words. 

"I'm  afraid  you  have  convicted  yourself,"  he  said. 
"If  you  had  the  courage  of  your  convictions,  you 
would  go  tramping  and  let  the  world  know  it." 

"No,"  she  said;  "it  isn't  that;  but  during  the  last 
four  or  five  years  I've  given  auntie  such  a  series  of 
shocks,  that  she  really  must  have  time  to  recover. 
First  I  went  as  a  V.A.D.,  then  I  drove  a  Red  Cross 
car  in  France  and — well,  now  I  must  give  way  to 
her  a  little  and  become  a  hypocrite." 

"No  doubt  that  is  where  you  got  your  ideas  re- 
adjusted." 


38  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Readjusted?"  she  repeated,  looking  at  him  in- 
terrogatingly. 

"In  France,"  he  said.  "We  all  had  time  to  think 
out  there." 

She  nodded  understandingly. 

"I  suppose  it  was  being  pitchforked  clean  out  of 
our  environment,"  continued  Beresford,  "and  mak- 
ing hay  with  class  distinctions.  I  went  out  from 
the  Foreign  Office.  For  some  weeks  I  was  a  pri- 
vate; it  was  a  revelation." 

"Yes,"  she  said  dreamily,  "I  suppose  we  all  felt 
it." 

"You  see  out  there  the  navvy  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  asked  himself  why  he  was  a  navvy." 

"And  the  man  from  the  Foreign  Office  why  he 
was  a  man  from  the  Foreign  Office,"  she  suggested. 

"Yes,"  he  smiled,  "and  I  doubt  if  either  was 
successful  in  framing  a  satisfactory  answer. 
Everything  was  one  vast  note  of  interrogation.  A 
new  riddle  had  been  propounded  to  us." 

"And  you  came  back  looking  for  an  CEdipus." 

"Yes,"  he  assented.  "I  on  the  open  road,  others 
in  the  workshop  and  office.  The  politician  knows 
nothing  about  reconstruction,  because  he  can  view 
it  only  from  the  material  standpoint." 

She  nodded  her  head  brightly  in  agreement.  "No 
one  seems  to  understand.  Everything's  so  mixed 
up." 

"I  suppose  it's  because  until  the  war  no  one  ever 
had  a  chance  of  finding  out  anything  about  any  but 
Jiis  own  class.  Over  there  the  labourer  found  the 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  39 

lord  a  sport,  and  the  lord  found  the  labourer  a  man 
just  like  himself.  Oh,  it's  going  to  be  what  a  little 
cockney  in  my  section  would  have  called  'an  'ades 
of  a  beano.'  ' 

Beresford  shovelled  some  more  coal  on  the  fire. 
He  seemed  unable  to  get  the  chill  out  of  his  limbs. 

"And  you,"  she  asked,  "are  you  tramping  for 
long?" 

"For  ever  I  hope." 

"For  ever!  That's  rather  a  longtime,  isn't  it?" 
she  questioned. 

Beresford  then  told  her  something  of  his  deter- 
mination to  cut  adrift  from  town  life  and  its 
drudgery,  and  to  see  what  the  open  road  had  to 
offer.  He  told  her  of  the  protests  of  his  relatives; 
of  the  general  conviction  that  he  had  become  men- 
tally unhinged,  probably  due  to  shell-shock.  How 
every  one  had  endeavoured  to  dissuade  him  from 
the  folly  upon  which  he  was  about  to  embark.  He 
told  her  that  in  the  disposal  of  his  effects  he  felt 
rather  like  a  schoolboy  destroying  his  kit. 

"But  your  books?"  she  said.  "What  did  you  do 
with  them?" 

"Ah!  there  you've  put  your  finger  on  the  weak 
spot,"  laughed  Beresford.  "I  had  meant  to  give 
away  a  few  and  sell  the  rest;  but  somehow  I  couldn't 
do  it,  so  I  had  them  done  up  in  cases  and  stored 
away.  I  paid  two  years'  storage  in  advance." 

She  nodded  approval  and  understanding. 

"You  will  see  that  I'm  really  a  very  weak  char- 
acter after  all." 


40  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"And  you  will  be  walking  month  after  month," 
she  said  dreamily,  "with  no  thought  of  the  London 
Season,  or  Scotland,  or  wintering  in  Egypt.  I  wish 
I  were  you,"  she  added. 

"But  surely  you  could  break  away  if  you  wished 
it?" 

"It's  not  so  easy  for  a  girl,"  she  replied,  "and 
— and — oh,  there  are  so  many  considerations. 
No,"  she  added  with  a  sigh  of  resignation,  "I  must 
be  content  with  occasional  lapses,  and  I  don't  really 
know  that  I'm  a  true  vagabond,"  she  said  a  little  re- 
gretfully, "I  always  have  to  carry  a  comfortable 
frock  with  me,"  glancing  down  at  herself,  then 
looking  up  at  him  with  a  quizzical  little  smile. 
"That  is  in  itself  a  sign  of  weakness,  isn't  it?" 

"Only  if  you  persist  in  labels,"  he  replied.  "You 
are  dreadfully  conventional." 

"I !"  she  cried  in  surprise. 

"Yes;  you  will  insist  on  classifying  every  one  ac- 
cording to  appearances  and  accepted  ideas." 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression. 

"Your  idea  of  a  vagabond  is  that  of  one  who 
washes  seldom,  changes  even  seldomer,  and  spends 
the  evening  in  hob-nailed  boots  by  the  inn  fireside." 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,"  she  said  laughing. 
"It's  very  difficult  to  get  away  from  labels." 

"Do  you  believe  that  Nature  discourages  eccen- 
tricity?" 

"I — I'm  afraid  I've  never  thought  about  it,"  she 
said  after  a  short  pause.  "Why?" 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  41 

"Because  that  ridiculous  phrase  has  been  run- 
ning in  my  head  all  day,"  he  replied,  shivering  again 
slightly.  "I  wonder  if  the  rain  came  as  a  rebuke 
to  me  for  throwing  over  everything." 

She  nodded,  signifying  that  she  understood. 

"It's  rather  queer,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  had  never 
thought  of  possible  drawbacks  to  bucolic  freedom." 

"You  do  now,  though,"  she  suggested  with  a  mis- 
chievous upward  glance  through  her  lashes  that 
thrilled  him. 

"I  seem  to  believe  in  nothing  else  now,"  he  added. 
"I  don't  possess  your  veneration  for  the  rain,  I  pre- 
fer skylarks.  Besides,"  he  went  on,  "I  like  to  lie 
on  my  back  in  a  field  and  forget." 

"I  know,"  she  said  eagerly,  "I've  often  wanted 
to  live  in  a  caravan,  then  you  get  everything.  The 
night  sounds  must  be  so  wonderful." 

"You  cannot  be  a  vagabond  if  you  carry  your 
house  with  you,"  he  objected. 

"Just  as  much  as  those  who  use  other  people's 
houses — the  inns,"  she  retorted.  "I  suppose  it's 
really  impossible  to  be  a  vagabond  other  than  at 
heart." 

"It's  impossible  unless  you  can  glory  in  dirt  and 
personal  uncleanliness." 

"What  a  horrible  idea.  Surely  there  can  be  clean 
vagabonds." 

"What  opportunity  has  a  tramp  to  wash?  There 
are  only  the  streams  and  the  rivers,  with  the  chance 
of  getting  run  in  for  disturbing  the  trout  or  pollut- 
ing the  water.  Besides,  without  soap  you  cannot 


42  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

wash  properly,  and  I've  never  heard  of  a  vagabond 
who  carried  a  cake  of  soap  with  him." 

"I  do,"  she  laughed,  then  after  a  few  moments' 
pause  she  added,  "You  reason  and  analyse  too  much 
for  the  open  road.  I  being  a  woman  accept  all,  and 
glory  in  my  inconsistencies." 

"And  incidentally  get  as  many  baths,  hot  or  cold, 
as  you  want." 

She  nodded. 

"No,"  he  continued,  "the  nomadic  habit  gets  you 
dubbed  a  dangerous  lunatic.  I  suppose  I'm  a  dan- 
gerous lunatic,  because  I  cannot  find  content  in  a 
dinner,  a  dance,  or  a  crush,  with  a  month's  holiday 
in  the  summer  and,  as  my  cousin  would  put  it,  work- 
ing like  a  fountain  from  ten  till  four." 

"But  does  it  really  matter  what  we  do,  provided 
we  can  justify  it  to  ourselves?"  She  looked  up  at 
him  eagerly. 

"Would  not  the  Philistines  regard  that  as  a  dan- 
gerous philosophy?" 

"I  don't  think  I  should  ever  want  to  run  away 
from  things,"  she  said  dreamily;  "that  is  monastic. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  much  greater  achieve- 
ment to  live  your  own  life  in  the  midst  of  uncon- 
genial or  unsympathetic  surroundings." 

"You  don't  know  Aunt  Caroline  and  the  For- 
eign Office,"  said  Beresford  grimly. 

"Oh !  but,"  said  the  girl,  "my  auntie's  just  as  con- 
ventional as  can  be.  You  see,"  she  continued  seri- 
ously, "to  be  an  idealist  you  must  be  unconscious 
of  being  one.  Do  you  understand  what  I  mean?" 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  43 

"You  suggest  that  it  may  become  a  pose." 
"Yes,"    she    said,    nodding    her    head    eagerly. 
"You  might  sacrifice  the  ideals  to  the  idealism.     It's 
like   religion  that  teaches   you   to   find   God  in   a 
church,  whereas  you  should  be  able  to : — 

Raise  the  stone  and  find  me  there, 
Cleave  the  wood  and  there  am  I. 

I  so  dislike  cults  and  societies,"  she  added  inconse- 
quently. 

"You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  being  lectured." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  hastily.  "I  didn't 
mean " 

"Please  go  on,  I  think  I  like  it." 

"But  we  are  wandering  from  vagabondage,"  she 
smiled.  "Don't  you  think  that  Thoreau  and  Jef- 
feries  were  vagabonds?" 

"Frankly  I  don't,"  he  said  with  decision.  "They 
were  sentimentalists.  The  nearest  to  perfect  vaga- 
bonds that  I  can  recall  among  writers  are  Walt 
Whitman  and  George  Borrow.  Whitman  is  al- 
leged to  have  had  all  the  characteristics  of  the  vaga- 
bond. Have  not  controversies  raged  about  his  per- 
sonal cleanliness?  As  for  Borrow,  he  could  outwit 
a  Jew  or  a  gipsy." 

"And  cheat  a  girl's  love  for  him,"  she  suggested. 

"Love  and  vagabondage  are  contradictions." 

"Contradictions  I"  she  cried,  opening  her  eyes 
wide.  "I  don't  agree  with  you,"  she  added  with 
decision. 


44  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"A  vagabond  has  only  one  mistress,  Nature,"  said 
Beresford  quietly. 

"Then  I'm  not  a  vagabond,"  she  said. 

"The  wood  and  the  glade  have  only  one  music 
for  the  vagabond,  the  pipes  of  Pan,"  he  continued. 
"You  would  introduce  the  guitar." 

"I  should  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  cried  in- 
dignantly. "As  a  matter  of  fact  I  used  to  play  the 
concertina." 

"The  what?" 

"The  concertina,"  she  repeated  demurely  with 
downcast  eyes. 

Beresford  stared  at  her  in  astonishment,  not  quite 
sure  whether  or  no  she  were  serious. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "I  couldn't  play  anything 
else,  and  sometimes  I  wanted  to  remind  myself  of — 
of "  she  broke  off. 

"You  could  have  sung?"  he  suggested. 

"Of  course  I  could,"  she  said  quietly,  "but  you've 
never  heard  me  sing,  and  now  I  must  be  going  to 

bed,"  she  said.  "Perhaps "  she  hesitated  for 

a  fraction  of  a  second.  "Perhaps  I  shall  see  you  at 
breakfast." 

"Thanks  so  much,"  he  said  eagerly.  "I  shall  be 
up  early,"  and  in  his  mind  he  had  come  to  the  de- 
termination that  his  way  should  be  her  way  if  she 
would  permit  it. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  as  she  rose,  and  with  a 
friendly  smile  walked  towards  the  door. 

"Good  night,  au  revoir"  he  said  meaningly,  as 


"THE  TWO  DRAGONS"  45 

he  opened  the  door  and  she  passed  out  with  a  nod 
and  a  smile. 

"A  concertina  I"  muttered  Beresford,  as  he  re- 
turned to  his  chair,  "and  what  eyes." 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  when  the  waiter  entered, 
ordered  a  double  brandy.  He  felt  chilled  to  the 
bone  in  spite  of  the  fire.  When  the  waiter  returned 
he  drank  the  brandy  neat,  shivering  again  violently. 

"Oh,  hang  it  I"  he  muttered  angrily.  "I'll  go 
to  bed." 

Surely  there  never  was  so  fantastic  an  ending  to 
so  fantastic  a  day.  Wooing  Pan  with  a  concertina  I 

"She's  mad,"  he  muttered,  "mad  as  a  spinning 
dervish." 


CHAPTER  III 

LOST  DAYS  AND  THE   DOCTOR 

IT  was  ridiculous  to  endeavour  to  force  a  side* 
of-beef  through  so  small  a  door;  but  was  it  a 
side-of-beef  ?  No,  it  was  a  bed.  Why  not 
take  out  a  feather?  Was  it  really  a  feather-bed? 
Why  should  a  feather-bed  wear  a  print-dress,  a 
white  apron,  cuffs  and  a  cap?  Of  course  it  was  a 
woman.  Beresford  gazed  fixedly  at  the  figure  in 
the  doorway.  Yes,  it  was  unquestionably  a  woman; 
but  why  was  she  there,  looking  down  critically  at 
him  lying  in  bed?  Did  she  want  him  to  get  up? 
He  closed  his  eyes  wearily.  His  head  felt  very 
strange. 

Presently  he  opened  his  eyes  again.  Yes;  it  cer* 
tainly  was  a  woman,  and  she  was  looking  down  at 
him. 

"Who  are  you?  Where  am  I?"  he  murmured 
as  he  gazed  vacantly  about  the  room.  "What  has 
happened?" 

"Hush!  you  mustn't  talk,"  was  the  response. 

When  he  looked  again  there  was  only  a  white 
door  with  yellow  mouldings  occupying  the  space 
where  the  woman  in  the  print-dress  had  stood.  She 
herself  had  vanished.  It  was  so  stupid  of  her  to 

46 


LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR          47 

run  away  when  spoken  to — so  like  a  woman,  too, 
to  baulk  a  natural  curiosity.  What  did  it  all  mean? 
Why  had  he  thought  the  woman  a  side-of-beef,  then 
a  feather-bed?  What  was  she  there  for?  Why 
did  he  appear  to  be  floating  about  in  space?  Why 
did  his  whole  body  feel  numbed,  yet  tingling? 

Suddenly  he  remembered  the  previous  day's  ad- 
ventures, the  Rain-Girl,  the  dinner,  Pan,  and  the 
concertina.  He  must  get  up  at  once,  or  she  might 
be  gone.  He  must  see  her  again.  He  struggled 
into  a  sitting  posture,  then  fell  back  suddenly.  He 
had  no  strength.  What  did  it  all  mean? 

The  door  opened  and  the  woman  in  the  print, 
dress  reappeared. 

"Where's  the  Rain-Girl?"  he  demanded  before 
she  had  time  to  close  the  door  behind  her,  "and 
what's  the  time?" 

"It's  eleven  o'clock,  and  you  must  lie  still,  or  you'll 
become  worse." 

The  woman's  voice  was  soft  and  soothing.  For 
some  minutes  he  pondered  deeply  over  the  impen- 
etrable mystery  of  her  words.  "Worse !"  Had  he 
been  ill?  It  was  absurd;  yet  why  was  he  so  weak? 
Eleven  o'clock!  Where  has  his  shaving-water? 

"What  is  the  date?"  he  suddenly  demanded. 

"You  must  be  quiet  and  not  talk,"  was  the  reply. 

"I  must  know  the  date,"  he  insisted. 

"It's  the  eighth  of  May,  and  you've  been  ill  and 
must  rest.  You're  very  weak."  The  nurse  bent 
over  him  and  fussed  about  with  the  pillows. 


48  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"The  eighth  of  May!  Where's  the  Rain-Girl, 
Pan,  the  concertina?"  he  enquired  faintly. 

"Hush!  I  shall  get  into  trouble  with  the  doctor 
if  I  allow  you  to  talk,"  she  said.  "You  must  sleep 
now,  and  we  will  talk  when  you  are  stronger." 

"Nature  discourages  eccentricity,  did  you  know 
that?"  he  muttered  apathetically,  as  he  closed  his 
eyes. 

The  nurse  regarded  him  curiously.  He  did  not 
appear  to  be  delirious;  yet  what  he  was  saying 
was Sick-nursing,  however,  produces  its  own- 
philosophy,  and  she  settled  herself  down  to  read 
until  the  doctor  should  arrive. 

A  lengthy  period  of  silence  was  broken  by  Beres- 
ford. 

"Would  you  very  much  mind  putting  aside  your 
book  and  answering  a  few  questions?"  he  asked  in 
a  feeble  voice. 

With  an  air  of  professional  resignation,  she  low- 
ered the  book  on  her  lap. 

"You  really  mustn't  talk.  If  you  do  I  shall  have 
to  go  out  of  the  room.  Now  you  don't  want  me  to 
get  into  trouble,  do  you?"  Her  tone  was  that  one 
would  adopt  to  a  child. 

Beresford  lay  still,  trying  to  think;  but  his  brain 
refused  his  will.  The  nurse  had  returned  to  her 
book  and  read  steadily  on,  deliberately  disregarding 
the  two  or  three  tentative  efforts  her  patient  made 
to  attract  her  attention.  His  voice  was  very  faint, 
and  she  pretended  not  to  hear.  The  doctor  had 
said  he  was  not  to  talk,  and  she  was  too  good  a 


LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR  49 

nurse  to  allow  imagination  to  modify  her  instruc- 
tions. 

When  the  doctor  arrived  an  hour  later,  he  found 
his  patient  restless  and  irritable.  Seeing  this  at  a 
glance,  he  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  placed  a  cool, 
strong  hand  upon  his  head,  and  began  to  talk.  The 
effect  was  instantaneous.  Beresford  lay  quiet,  and 
the  drawn  lines  of  irritation  upon  his  face  relaxed. 

"Had  rather  a  bad  time.  Pneumonia  brought 
on,  or  hastened,  by  that  wetting  you  got.  Delirious 
when  they  found  you  the  next  morning.  Then  we 
had  to  fight  for  you,  and  here  after  seven  days 
you've  come  around.  That  was  what  you  wanted  to 
know,  eh?" 

Beresford  smiled  his  thanks. 

"And  the  Rain-Girl?"  he  questioned,  "the  girl 
who  was  here  and  played  the  concertina.  Has  she 
gone?" 

The  doctor  smiled. 

"I  know,  I  saw  her.  Grey  eyes  and  a  manner 
half-demure,  half-impertinent,  wholly  maddening. 
Yes,  I  met  her  on  the  road." 

Beresford  smiled  appreciatively  at  the  doctor's 
description. 

"You're  the  best  man's  doctor  I  ever  met,"  he 
said.  "Do  women  like  you?" 

The  doctor  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
loudly,  causing  the  nurse,  who  had  just  left  the  room, 
to  wonder  if  he  were  mad. 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  a  woman's  doctor,"  he  re- 
plied. 


50  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Then  you  are  in  for  a  big  success,"  said  Beres- 
ford  faintly.  "Who  are  you?" 

"Look  here,  you  must  let  me  talk.  I'm  James 
Tallis,  practising  at  Print  as  a  first  step  to  Wimpole 
or  Harley  Streets.  The  girl  went  away,  so  don't 
worry  about  her.  Such  eyes  ought  to  be  gouged  out 
by  Act  of  Parliament.  They  were  intolerable.  Now 
I'm  off.  Don't  fidget,  don't  worry,  don't  ask  the 
nurse  questions,  and  I'll  try  and  tell  you  everything 
in  time.  I'll  run  in  again  to-morrow,  and  we'll  have 
a  longer  talk.  'Bye." 

Beresford  stretched  out  his  hand,  which  Tallis 
took,  at  the  same  time  feeling  his  pulse. 

"Don't  give  me  drugs,  just  talk  when  you  can," 
he  said  weakly.  "Of  course  you're  only  a  dream- 
doctor.  If  not  you're  mad."  With  that  he  lay 
back,  tired  with  the  effort  of  talking,  and  the  doctor 
with  another  laugh  left  the  room,  whispered  a  few 
words  to  the  nurse  in  the  corridor,  and  whisked  out 
of  the  hotel. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  crazy,  topsy-turvy  world? 
Beresford's  mind  was  a  chaos  of  absurdities.  He 
had  flown  from  the  commonplace,  and  landed  in 
a  veritable  Gehenna  of  interest.  Within  thirty  hours 
of  setting  out,  a  modern  Don  Quixote,  plus  a  tem- 
perament, he  had  encountered  more  incidents, 
pleasant  and  unpleasant,  than  most  men  have  any 
right  to  expect  in  a  decade.  It  was  absurd,  ridicu- 
lous, insane  to  overload  a  man's  stomach  with 
adventure  in  this  way.  It  was  like  giving  beef-steak 
pudding  to  some  poor  devil  with  gastritis.  Perhaps 


LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR          61 

after  all  he  would  be  forced  to  return  to  London  in 
search  of  quiet.  The  country  was  evidently  packed 
with  adventures  too  monstrously  anti-climatic  for 
him.  And  he  fell  asleep  as  a  protest  against  the 
obvious  mismanagement  of  his  affairs  by  fate. 

On  the  morrow  the  doctor  came  again,  chatted 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  then,  like  a  breeze  on  a 
hot  summer's  day,  departed.  The  nurse  was  nega- 
tive: she  was  uncongenial,  uncompanionable,  un- 
everything. 

On  the  second  day  the  proprietor  came  to  see  the 
patient.  He  was  a  little  man  with  a  round  figure 
and  a  round  smile.  He  entered  the  room  as  if  it 
had  been  a  death-chamber,  approached  the  bed  on 
tip-toe,  and  smiled  nervously.  As  a  landlord  he  was 
all  that  could  be  desired.  He  would  meet  his  guests 
at  the  door  and  welcome  them  as  a  good  host  should. 
He  would  enquire  after  their  comfort,  and  in  the 
mornings  ask  if  they  had  slept  well.  He  would 
gossip  with  them  cheerfully  if  they  showed  them- 
selves inclined  for  talk,  and  he  personally  superin- 
tended the  kitchen,  having  once  been  a  chef.  In 
short,  he  strove  to  combine  all  that  was  most  attrac- 
tive in  modern  comfort  with  the  best  traditions  of 
the  old  coaching  days. 

In  a  sick-room,  however,  the  landlord  of  "The 
Two  Dragons"  was  out  of  place.  Rich  in  tact  and 
amiability,  he  was  bankrupt  in  all  else.  He  spoke  in 
a  hushed  whisper,  sat  on  the  extreme  edge  of  his 
chair,  and  coughed  nervously  from  time  to  time, 
raising  the  tips  of  his  fingers  to  his  lips.  He  was 


52  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

smiling,  he  was  bland;  but  Beresford  was  thankful 
when  he  rose  to  go,  promising  to  come  in  on  the 
morrow. 

The  Rain-Girl  continued  to  monopolise  Beres- 
ford's  thoughts.  What  had  become  of  her?  Where 
was  she  now?  Should  he  ever  see  her  again?  To 
all  these  questions  there  was  no  answer,  at  least  no 
answer  that  satisfied  him. 

During  those  dreary  days  of  convalescence  he 
chafed  under  the  "dire  compulsion  of  infertile  days." 
Outside  were  the  trees,  the  birds,  the  sunlight,  with 
an  occasional  sudden  rush  of  rain,  followed  by  the 
maddening  scent  of  moist  earth.  He  fumed  and 
fretted  at  the  restraint  put  upon  him,  not  only  by 
the  doctor;  but  by  his  own  physical  weakness.  He 
longed  for  the  open  road  once  more. 

The  monotony  of  it  all,  of  being  a  hotel-invalid; 
it  was  intolerable.  The  events  of  the  day,  what 
were  they?  Breakfast,  the  arrival  of  the  morning 
paper,  a  visit  of  ceremony  from  the  landlord,  lunch, 
the  doctor  and  tea — and,  finally,  dinner.  Sometimes 
the  doctor  would  spend  an  hour  with  him  in  the 
evening. 

The  nurse  was  an  infliction.  In  herself  she  was 
sufficient  to  discourage  any  one  from  falling  ill.  She 
had  neither  conversation  nor  ideas,  she  whistled  as 
she  moved  about  the  room,  or  else  she  talked  inces- 
santly, now  that  her  patient  was  convalescent. 
Sometimes  she  appeared  to  talk  and  whistle  at  the 
same  time,  so  swift  were  the  alternations. 

The  landlord — a  man  rich  in  that  which  made  a 


LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR          53 

good  landlord  but  in  nothing  else — exhausted  his 
ideas  within  the  space  of  five  minutes.  With  great 
regularity  he  entered  the  sick-room  each  morning 
at  eleven,  at  eleven-five  he  would  take  his  departure, 
more  genial,  more  amiable,  and  more  obviously 
good-hearted  than  ever.  The  doctor  was  the  most 
welcome  visitor  of  all;  but  he  was  a  busy  man. 

"If  the  microbes  of  this  neighbourhood  were  only 
sociable,"  he  would  say,  "I  might  spend  more  time 
with  you.  As  it  is  they're  wanderers  to  a  germ,  and 
get  as  far  as  possible  from  each  other  before  de- 
scending upon  my  patients.  The  result  is  that  I  am 
kept  rushing  from  place  to  place  with  phial  and 
lancet,  sedative  and  purge,  all  because  of  the  nomadic 
habits  of  these  precious  bacilli." 

These  unprofessional  visits  from  the  doctor 
Beresford  looked  forward  to  as  intellectual  oases 
in  the  desert  of  his  own  thoughts.  He  had  endeav- 
oured to  emulate  Xavier  Le  Maistre;  but  he  had  to 
confess  to  himself  that  Voyages  Autour  de  ma 
Chambre  were  impossible  to  him,  so  there  remained 
only  the  doctor. 

One  evening  towards  the  end  of  the  month  they 
sat  charting  beside  the  bedroom  fire,  Beresford 
wrapped  in  a  heavy  dressing-gown  borrowed  from 
the  landlord.  They  had  been  talking  of  the  war 
and  the  social  upheaval  that  was  following  it. 

"It  was  all  so  strange  coming  back  here,"  said 
Beresford,  "a  lot  of  the  fellows  remarked  upon  it. 
Somehow  or  other  we  didn't  seem  to  belong — we 
didn't  seem  to  fit  in,  you  know.  When  I  came  back 


54  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

on  leave  I  noticed  it  particularly.  I  would  go  to  a 
restaurant,  hear  the  talk  and  laughter,  listen  to  the 
music;  yet  twenty-four  hours  previously  I — oh!  it 
was  all  wrong,  and  is  wrong,  and  will  continue  to  be 
wrong,"  he  broke  off  irritably. 

"I  know,"  said  Tallis  quietly. 

"You  were  out  there?"  queried  Beresford. 

"For  more  than  a  couple  of  years,  one  part  of 
the  time  at  an  advanced  dressing-station." 

"So  you  know,"  said  Beresford  with  interest. 

Tallis  nodded,  puffing  methodically  at  his  pipe. 

"The  strange  thing  is  that  some  knew  what  was 
the  matter  with  them,  others  were  just  like  animals 
who  were  ill  and  couldn't  understand  it.  You've 
seen  a  dog  look  up  at  you  as  if  enquiring  why  it 
can't  enjoy  things  as  it  used  to?" 

Tallis  nodded  again. 

"Well,  that's  what  some  of  the  men  reminded  me 
of,"  continued  Beresford,  "especially  those  who  had 
come  back  from  leave.  God  1"  he  exclaimed,  "it  was 
an  unequal  distribution  of  the  world's  responsibil- 
ities." 

For  some  time  they  smoked  in  silence.  Presently 
the  doctor  bent  towards  the  grate  and  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

"Talking  of  responsibilities,"  he  said  casually, 
"reminds  me  of  my  own.  What's  the  next  move 
after  convalescence?" 

"The  next  move?" 

"You'd  better  try  Folkestone." 


LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR          55 

"Folkestone!"  cried  Beresford,  "I'll  be  damned 
if  I  do.  I'd  sooner  go  to — to  " 

"Well,  it'll  probably  be  a  choice  between  the  two. 
I'd  try  Folkestone  first,  however,  if  I  were  you," 
he  added  drily.  "It'll  brace  you  up." 

"But  it's  going  back  again "  He  paused  and 

regarded  the  doctor  comically.  "You  see,"  he  con- 
tinued, "I've  cut  adrift  from  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
I  escaped  from  London,  and  now  you  want  to  send 
me  to  a  seaside-town — abomination  of  abomina- 
tions. I  won't  go.  I'll  see  the  whole  idiotic  Faculty 
damned  first.  I've  been  free,  and  I  won't  go  back 
to  the  collar.  I  know  you  think  I'm  a  fool,"  he 
concluded  moodily. 

"No,  merely  an  idealist,"  said  Tallis,  puffing  im- 
perturbably  at  his  pipe. 

"Where's  the  difference?"  growled  Beresford, 
petulantly. 

"There  is  none,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "What'll 
happen  when  your  money's  exhausted?"  was  the 
next  question.  Beresford  had  already  told  Tallis 
of  what  had  led  up  to  his  adventure.  "I  take  it  that 
your  means,  like  other  things,  have  their  limitations. 
What'll  you  do  when  the  money's  gone?" 

"Oh,  anything,  everything^  If  fate  sends  me 
pneumonia  on  the  first  day  of  my  adventure,  on  the 
last  she'll  probably  send  me " 

"A  great  desire  for  life,"  interrupted  the  doctor 
calmly. 

Beresford  sat  up  suddenly.  "Good  Lord  I"  he 
burst  out.  "How  horrible!  What  a  fiendish  idea." 


56  TH3  RAIN-GIRL 

"Nature  has  an  odd  way  of  paying  off  old  scores. 
She's  a  mistress  of  irony." 

"And  you  appear  to  be  a  master  of  a  peculiarly 
devilish  kind  of  abominable  suggestion,"  said  Beres- 
ford  irritably.  "I  thought  you  a  dream-doctor  at 
first — you're  a  nightmare-doctor  I  Do  you  think 
that  Nature  is  a  coquette,  who  appears  to  discourage 
a  man  in  order  to  strengthen  his  ardour?" 

After  some  hesitation  the  doctor  replied: 

"No:  she's  logical  and  even-tempered.  There's 
nothing  wayward  about  her :  she  represents  abstract 
justice.  Treat  her  well  and  she'll  treat  you  well; 
abuse  her  and  she's  implacable.  My  professional 
experience  tells  me  that  if  she  ever  deviates  from  the 
strict  path  of  justice,  it's  on  the  side  of  clemency." 

"Damn  your  professional  experience,"  snapped 
Beresford,  then  he  laughed. 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  persisted  Tallis, 

"You're  as  bad  as  Aunt  Caroline.  She  always 
wants  to  plan  a  destiny  as  if  it  were  a  dinner." 

"But  that  does  not  answer  my  question." 

"It  doesn't,"  agreed  Beresford,  "because  there's 
jio  answer.  When  the  time  comes  I  shall  decide." 

They  smoked  on  in  silence,  and  Tallis  did  not 
again  refer  to  the  subject.  The  conversation,  how- 
ever, remained  in  Beresford's  mind  for  several  days. 
The  conspiracy  against  him  seemed  widespread. 
Why  had  there  always  been  this  curious  strain  in 
him,  a  sort  of  unrest,  an  undefined  expectancy?  Was 
he  in  reality  mad?  Was  he,  indeed,  pursuing  a 
shadow?  In  any  case  he  would  prove  it  for  himself. 


LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR          57 

He  was  not  to  be  deterred  by  this  ridiculous,  level- 
headed sawbones  with  his  sententious  babble  about 
Nature,  justice  and  clemency.  It  was  true  he  had 
been  unlucky  enough  to  get  pneumonia.  Other  men 
had  done  the  same  without  the  circumstance  being 
contorted  into  an  absurd  theory  that  the  whole 
forces  of  the  universe  were  being  directed  against 
them. 

Then  there  was  the  Rain-Girl.  Why  had  he  been 
so  detestably  unlucky  as  to  fall  ill  on  the  night  of 
meeting  her?  She  was  a  unique  creature,  and  those 
eyesl  She  had  charm  too,  there  was  something 
Pagan  about  her,  and  her  wonderful  gurgling  laugh; 
but  she  had  said  he  was  all  wrong,  and  she  certainly 
had  nothing  in  common  with  Aunt  Caroline. 

Each  day  his  determination  to  see  the  girl  grew 
stronger.  She  had  cast  a  spell  over  him.  She  had 
fascinated  him.  She  cared  for  the  things  that  he 
cared  for.  He  must  see  her  again.  He  would  see 
her  again — but  how?  At  this  juncture  he  generally 
lay  back  in  his  chair,  or  bed,  and  gave  up  the  prob- 
lem until  he  were  stronger  and  better  able  to  grapple 
with  it. 

Once  there  had  come  over  him  an  unreasoning 
anger  at  her  heartlessness.  Knowing  that  a  fellow- 
guest  at  the  hotel  was  ill,  even  if  only  with  a  chill, 
a  strictly  humanitarian  woman  would  have  been 
touched  by  pity;  but  were  women  humanitarian? 
Had  she  heard  he  was  ill?  In  a  novel  she  would 
have  stayed,  nursed  him  back  to  health,  and  he 
would  have  married  her. 


58  TH^  RAIN-GIRL 

This  line  of  reasoning  invariably  ended  in  his 
laughing  at  his  own  folly  in  expecting  an  acquaint- 
ance to  act  as  if  she  were  an  intimate  friend,  and 
wanting  real  life  to  approach  the  romantic  standard 
of  the  novelist.  That  had  been  the  trouble  all  along. 
He  had  asked  too  much  of  life. 

She  was  so  wonderful,  that  Rain-Girl.  She  was  a 
tramp;  yet  carried  with  her  a  soft,  feminine  frock 
and  had  once  played  the  concertina  with  which  to 
woo  the  great  god  Pan !  How  astonished  Olympus 
must  have  been  at  the  sight.  Why  did  he  want  to 
see  her  again?  Why  did  life  seem  somehow  to 
revolve  round  her?  Why,  above  all,  oh!  why,  a 
thousand  times  why,  did  her  face  keep  presenting 
itself  to  his  waking  vision  ?«  In  dreams  she  was  par- 
amount, that  was  understandable,  but 

"When  a  man  has  a  few  hundred  pounds  between 
himself  and  the  Great  Adventure,  it's  better  for  him 
not  to  think  about  a  girl." 

"On  the  contrary,  my  dear  fellow,  it's  just  the 
moment  when  he  should  begin  to  think  seriously 
about  her." 

Beresford  had  unconsciously  uttered  his  thoughts 
aloud,  as  he  stood  at  the  window,  watching  the  sun 
through  the  pine-wood  opposite,  and  Tallis  entering 
unheard,  had  answered  him. 

"Now  it's  you  who  are  the  idealist,"  smiled 
Beresford. 

"If  a  doctor  has  an  eye  for  anything  but  a 
microbe,  he'll  recognise  that  love  is  a  great  healer. 


LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR  59 

Don't  look  for  health  in  a  phial  or  a  retort;  but  in 
an  affinity." 

"Drewitt  says  that  an  affinity  is  like  a  hair-shirt; 
it  enables  you  to  realise  the  soul  through  the  medium 
of  the  senses." 

"That's  a  very  poor  epigram.  Some  day  you'll 
discover  it  for  yourself."  Tallis  drew  his  pipe  from 
his  pocket  and  proceeded  to  fill  it  from  Beresford's 
pouch  that  lay  on  the  table. 

"I  suppose,"  remarked  Beresford  presently,  "that 
there's  nothing,  no  law,  convention  or  unrepealed 
statute  in  the  Defense  of  the  Realm  Act  by  which 
you  can  insist  on  my  going  to  Folkestone." 

Tallis  shook  his  head  and  proceeded  to  light  his 
pipe. 

"Then  I  shall  go  to  London,"  announced  Beres- 
ford with  decision. 

Tallis  puffed  vigorously  at  his  pipe ;  but  made  no 
comment. 

"I  said  I  shall  go  to  London,"  repeated  Beres- 
ford. 

"You  did." 

"Then  why  the  devil  can't  you  say  something 
about  it?" 

"There's  nothing  to  be  said,"  was  the  smiling 
retort.  "May  I  ask  why  you  have  come  to  this 
decision?" 

"I'm  sick  of  the  country.  It's — it's  so  infernally 
monotonous,"  he  added  somewhat  lamely. 

Tallis  nodded  his  head  comprehendingly. 

"Why  on  earth  can't  you  say  something?"  snapped 


60  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Beresford.  "You  know  you  think  I'm  an  ass,  why 
on  earth  can't  you  tell  me  so?" 

"You  might  let  me  know  your  address  when  you 
get  settled,"  said  Tallis,  ignoring  his  patient's  petu- 
lance. "I'd  like  to  keep  in  touch  with  you." 

"I  shall  stay  at  the  Ritz-Carlton,"  announced 
Beresford,  covertly  watching  Tallis  to  see  the  effect 
of  the  announcement  upon  him. 

"The  Ritz-Carlton,"  repeated  Tallis,  without  any 
show  of  surprise.  "I  believe  they  do  you  rather  well 
there,"  he  remarked  quietly.  "I  suppose  she's  going 
to  stay  there." 

"She!  Who?"  Beresford  started  up  and  looked 
across  at  Tallis  in  astonishment. 

"The  girl  with  the  eyes." 

Beresford  laughed.  "It's  no  good  trying  to  keep 
anything  from  you,"  he  cried.  "She's  going  to  stay 
there,  and  I  must  see  her  again.  What  has  hap- 
pened I  don't  know;  but  she  seems  to  have  changed 
the  whole  universe  for  me.  How  it's  all  going  to 
end,  God  only  knows,"  he  added  gloomily.  "All  I 
know  is  that  I  must  see  her  again.  The  thing  is 
when  can  I  start?" 

For  a  few  minutes  Tallis  smoked  in  silence,  obvi- 
ously thinking  deeply,  at  last  he  spoke. 

"I  think  perhaps  you're  right,  Beresford.  It  will 
have  to  be  London.  It  would  be  no  use  your  going 
to  Folkestone  in  the  flesh,  if  you  were  in  London  in 
the  spirit.  I  think  a  week  or  ten  days  might  see  you 
fit  to  travel,  provided  you  take  care." 


LOST  DAYS  AND  THE  DOCTOR          61 

"Oh!  I  shall  be  ready  before  then,  now  that 
whistling-jackass  has  gone." 

"The  whistling-jackass?"  queried  the  doctor 
quickly. 

"The  nurse.  How  you  can  expect  any  one  to  get 
well  with  that  girl  about  the  place,  I  can't  conceive. 
She  did  nothing  but  whistle  and  talk." 

"Did  she?"  It  was  obvious  that  Tallis  was  mak- 
ing a  mental  note  of  the  nurse's  weakness.  "Yes," 
Jie  continued,  "in  ten  days,  or  a  fortnight  at  the  out- 
side, you'll  be  fit  to  travel,  provided  you  take  care." 

"And  what  exactly  does  taking  care  imply?  Does 
it  mean  a  hot-water  bottle  and  a  chest-protector, 
goloshes  and  Jaeger  underwear?"  demanded  Beres- 
ford  irritably. 

"You  will  be  weak  and  easily  fatigued.  Don't 
overtire  or  over-excite  yourself,  be  careful  of  your 
diet,  keep  off  spirits  and  take  a  good  red  wine,  and 
generally  go  slow  for  a  little  time,"  said  Tallis  pro- 
fessionally. 

"But  I  won't  go  to  Folkestone."  There  was  the 
note  of  a  rebellious  child  in  Beresford's  voice. 

"So  I  understand,"  said  Tallis.  "By  the  way,  I 
shall  be  running  up  to  town  in  July,  and  I'll  look 
you  up." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  said  Beresford  heartily.  "I 
don't  want  to  lose  sight  of  you  either.  You're  such 
a  comic  sort  of  devil,  although  why  you  should  con- 
ceive the  diabolical  idea  of  dragging  me  back  resist- 
ing to  this  world  I  can't  conceive.  You're  just  as  bad 


62  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

as  that  colonial  Tommy,  who  risked  his  own  life,  and 
jolly  nearly  lost  it  too,  merely  that  I  might  be 
involved  in  the  further  trouble  and  expense  of 
living." 


T 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

O-MORROW,"  remarked  Beresford,  as  he 
lay  back  in  a  hammock-chair  upon  the 
inn  lawn,  "I  set  out  for  the  haunts  of 


Tallis,  who  had  called  in  after  dinner  for  a  smoke, 
did  not  reply  immediately;  but  for  fully  a  minute 
sat  pulling  meditatively  at  his  pipe. 

"Any  criticisms?"  enquired  Beresford  with  a 
smile. 

"That  depends  on  how  you  propose  to  go,"  was 
the  reply. 

"Oh,  slow,  say  ten  miles  a  day." 

"That's  helpful,"  said  Tallis  drily. 

"Helpful?    What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?" 

"I  shall  know  where  to  have  the  ambulance. " 

For  a  moment  Beresford  did  not  reply,  then  he 
laughed. 

"You  certainly  are  the  most  extraordinary  fellow 
I  ever  met,"  he  said.  "So  you  think  I  can't  walk 
ten  miles?" 

"You'll  collapse  before  you  reach  the  third  mile," 
Tallis  replied,  with  the  air  of  a  man  making  a  simple 
statement  of  fact/ 

63 


64  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"What!"  cried  Beresford,  sitting  up  straight  in 
his  surprise.     "Am  I  as  bad  as  that?" 
i     "You're  just  weak  and  want  building  up,"  was 
the  reply. 

For  some  time  the  two  men  continued  to  smoke 
in  silence. 

"I  suppose  the  war  cheapens  human  life,"  said 
Beresford  irrelevantly. 

'     Tallis  looked  across  at  him;  but  made  no  com- 
ment. 

"I  noticed  out  there,"  continued  Beresford,  "that 
men  new  to  the  game  seemed  so  different  from  those 
who  had  been  at  it  a  year  or  two." 

"In  what  way?" 

"They  seemed  more  vital.  They  were  interested, 
curious.  They  asked  all  sorts  of  what  seemed  to 
us  old  hands  stupid  questions."  He  paused,  and 
Tallis  nodded  his  head  comprehendingly. 

"Then  they  would  gradually  become  absorbed  in 
the  atmosphere  of  fatalism  that  seemed  to  grip  us 
all.  It  was  very  strange,"  he  added,  half  to  himself. 

"What  about  the  cheapening  of  life?" 

"It's  a  bit  difficult  to  express,"  said  Beresford 
slowly,  "but  somehow  or  other  I  seem  to  feel  that 
the  old  idea  of  the  sacredness  of  human  life  has  gone 
for  ever  as  far  as  I  am  concerned."  Again  he  paused 
and  for  some  seconds  smoked  in  silence,  .then  he 
continued  whimsically,  "Take  an  exaggerated  case. 
Before  the  war  if  a  man  had " 

"Stolen  from  you  the  girl  with  the  eyes,  shall  we 
say,"  suggested  Tallis  gravely. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  RAIN-GIRL          65 

"Well,  that'll  do,"  he  laughed,  "I  should  probably 
have  wanted  to  knock  him  down;  now  I  should  kill 
him.  Why?" 

"Merely  a  psychological  readjustment  of  your 
ideas  of  crime  and  punishment,"  said  Tallis. 

"No,  that's  not  it,"  said  Beresford  musingly.  "It 
goes  deeper  than  that.  Before  the  war,  killing  was 
an  unthinkable  crime,  now  it's  little  more  than  kick- 
ing a  man  downstairs.  In  other  words  this  genera- 
tion has  pricked  the  bubble  of  the  sacredness  of 
human  life." 

"I  suppose  that's  it,"  said  Tallis,  as  if  reluctant 
to  admit  it.  "But " 

"That  doesn't  settle  my  little  hash,  you  mean?" 
Beresford  interrupted. 

"Your  little  hash  will  settle  itself,  my  son,"  replied 
Tallis  with  a  smile,  "unless  you're  a  bit  more  rea- 
sonable," he  added. 

"I  was  coming  to  that.  I  seem  to  have  lost  the 
will  to  live.  It's  odd,"  Beresford  continued 
musingly,  "but  when  things  worry  or  irritate  me, 
I  seem  instinctively  to  fall  back  on  the " 

"Hari-kari  idea?"  suggested  Tallis. 

"That's  it,"  he  nodded.  "The  way  out.  Why 
is  it?" 

"Liver." 

"Oh,  rot  I  If  it's  liver,  why  didn't  I  notice  it 
before  the  war?" 

"Nerves  and  liver  do  make  cowards  of  us  all," 
said  Tallis  sententiously.  "Anyhow,  don't  hurry 
off  from  here." 


66  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Very  well,  I'll  put  off  the  start  until  Monday. 
Let's  see,  that'll  be  June  9th." 

Tallis  nodded  approval. 

"You  and  my  host  and  the  nurse  and  the  whole 
blessed  boiling  of  you  have  assumed  a  pretty  serious 
responsibility,"  continued  Beresford.  "You've 
dragged  me  back  resisting  into  this  world  of  vain 
endeavour,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  you  haven't  done 
an  extremely  injudicious  thing;  but  that's  your  affair, 
not  mine." 

"What  about  the  girl?"  enquired  Tallis. 

"I  ought  to  be  annoyed  with  you,"  continued 
Beresford,  ignoring  the  question,  "as  a  man  who 
has  been  forced  to  eat  a  meal  he  didn't  want  and 
is  then  asked  to  pay  for  it.  You've  literally  hauled 
me  back  to  earth  by  the  heels;  but  as  I  say,  that's 
your  affair,  not  mine." 

"Well,"  said  Tallis  as  he  rose  and  pocketed  his 
pipe,  "life  always  was  a  funny  sort  of  muddle;  but 
Kaiser  Bill  has  added  to  its  difficulties.  I'm  not  at 
all  sure  that  we  doctors  don't  do  more  harm  in 
saving  people  than  in " 

"Killing  them,"  suggested  Beresford. 

"Letting  them  die  as  they  deserve,"  concluded 
Tallis  quietly.  "So  long,"  and  he  strolled  across  the 
lawn  into  "The  Two  Dragons,"  leaving  his  patient 
to  his  thoughts. 

Beresford  found  himself  looking  forward  to  the 
day  of  his  emancipation  with  all  the  eagerness  of  a 
schoolboy  anticipating  the  summer  holidays.  The 
past  few  weeks  had  resulted  in  an  entire  readjust- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  RAIN-GIRL          67 

ment  of  his  ideas.  The  open  road  no  longer  seemed 
to  attract  him.  Hitherto  it  had  appeared  the  only 
thing  that  mattered;  now  into  all  his  plans  and  pro- 
jects the  Rain-Girl  seemed  to  precipitate  herself. 

Try  as  he  might,  he  found  it  impossible  to  develop 
a  scheme  for  the  future  from  which  she  was  ex- 
cluded. A  few  weeks  previously  his  one  idea  in  life 
had  been  to  get  away  from  the  London  that  jarred 
so  upon  his  nerves.  He  could  not  breathe  in  its 
heavy,  smoky  atmosphere,  he  had  told  himself,  and 
he  had  longed  for  the  quiet  of  the  countryside,  where 
he  could  think  and,  mentally,  put  his  house  in  order. 
Now  everything  was  changed.  Why?  It  seemed 
to  have  become  a  world  of  "Whys." 

Convalescence  to  him  could  not  mean  the  going 
away  to  some  quiet  spot  where  his  health  might  be 
completely  restored.  It  meant  a  definite  and  active 
campaign  in  search  of  this  girl;  yet  he  had  seen  her 
only  twice.  It  was  all  so  strange,  so  bewildering. 
Time  after  time  he  asked  himself  what  she  had 
thought  of  his  conduct  in  not  keeping  the  implied 
appointment  for  breakfast.  Had  she  decided  that 
he  had  forgotten,  or  overslept  himself?  He  had 
learned  that  it  was  nearly  eleven  on  that  unfortunate 
second  of  May  before  his  condition  was  discovered 
by  the  chambermaid. 

Of  course  it  did  not  matter  to  the  Rain-Girl,  he 
told  himself.  By  now,  in  all  probability,  she  had 
forgotten  his  very  existence;  but  for  himself,  well, 
find  her  he  would,  even  if  he  had  to  search  London 
as  the  girl  in  history  had  done  for  her  lover.  He 


68  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

could  not  remember  who  it  was;  thinking  fatigued 
him  excessively  these  days.  Upon  one  thing  he  con- 
gratulated himself,  he  possessed  a  clue  in  the  name 
of  the  hotel  at  which  she  was  to  stay. 

When  at  last  the  day  of  his  emancipation  came, 
Beresford  found  himself  as  excited  as  a  child  upon 
the  morning  of  a  school-treat.  Soon  after  dawn 
he  was  gazing  out  of  the  window  to  assure  himself 
that  the  weather  was  not  about  to  play  him  another 
scurvy  trick,  such  as  it  had  done  on  the  first  day  of 
his  adventure.  With  a  sigh  of  content  he  saw  that 
the  sky  over  the  pinewoods  opposite  was  blue-grey 
and  cloudless.  He  returned  to  bed  thinking,  not  of 
the  weather,  but  of  the  Rain-Girl. 

Soon  after  breakfast  Tallis  called  to  bid  him 
good-bye. 

"Now,  young  fellow,"  he  said,  "no  tricks.  Re- 
member you  are  weak,  and  won't  be  able  to  stand 
much  fatigue.  If  you  set  out  to  walk  ten  miles  a 
day,  or  anything  like  it,  your  little  worries  and 
problems  will  settle  themselves;  but  don't  do  it. 
I'm  frightfully  busy,  and  inquests  are  the  devil." 

"You've  got  a  cheerful  way  of  putting  things," 
said  Beresford  drily. 

"I've  discovered  that  it's  no  use  putting  things  to 
you  in  the  normal  way,"  replied  Tallis  with  a  smile. 
"To  say  that  you  are  pig-headed  is  unfair  to  the 
porker.  Remember,"  he  added,  warningly,  "three 
miles  at  the  outside  to-day;  I  doubt  if  you'll  want 
to  do  more  than  two." 

"Oh,  rot  I"  cried  Beresford.  "Look  here,  I'll  give 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  RAIN-GIRL          69 

you  two  pounds  for  every  half-mile  I  do  under  three, 
and  you  give  me  one  pound  for  every  mile  I  do 


over." 


"No,"  said  Tallis,  shaking  his  head,  "that  would 
be  compounding  a  suicide.  Your  will  might  carry 
you  on  for  four  miles;  but  you'd  finish  the  journey 
on  a  gate." 

"You're  as  gloomy  as  a  panel-doctor  during  an 
epidemic,"  laughed  Beresford.  "That's  the  worst 
of  you  medicos,  you  do  everything  by  rule  of  thumb. 
You  say  certain  things  have  happened  and  conse- 
quently certain  other  things  must  grow  out  of  them 
as  a  natural  sequence.  You  make  no  allowance  for 
the  personal  equation." 

"I've  made  a  great  deal  of  allowance  for  your 
personal  equation,  my  son,"  replied  Tallis  grimly, 
"otherwise  I  should  long  ago  have  certified  you 


insane." 


"Why,  I'm  a  perfect  epic  of  sanity  compared  with 
you,"  protested  Beresford.  "Look  how  you  used 
to  scandalise  the  nurse  by  the  way  you  talked  to  me 
when,  according  to  all  the  rules  of  the  game,  I  ought 
to  have  been  left  quiet." 

"And  which  soothed  you  the  most,"  enquired 
Tallis  quietly,  "being  left  alone  to  your  thoughts, 
or  told  what  you  wanted  to  know?" 

"Oh,  it  answered  all  right,  of  course." 

Tallis  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It's  too  bad,"  laughed  Beresford,  "here  have 
you  dragged  me  back  to  life  again,  and  now  I'm 
bullying  you.  It's  been  ripping  having  you  about. 


70  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

God  knows  what  I  should  have  done  if  you  hadn't 
been  here,"  he  added  as  he  rose  and  stretched  him- 
self. 

"Well,  don't  break  down  again,"  said  Tallis,  "and 
above  all  things  go  slow.  Let  me  hear  how  you 
get  on  and — if  you  find  her." 

"Right-o,"  he  gripped  the  doctor's  hand,  "and 
now,  like  Dick  Whittington,  I'm  off  to  discover 
London  town." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  proprietor,  and  thanked 
him  for  all  he  had  done  and,  with  the  good  wishes 
of  the  whole  staff,  turned  his  head  northwards  in 
the  direction  of  London,  conscious  that  before  him 
lay  an  even  greater  adventure  than  the  one  he  had 
sought  on  that  unforgettable  first  of  May. 

It  seemed  as  if  Nature,  conscious  of  having  failed 
him  once,  was  now  endeavouring  to  make  amends 
for  her  lapse.  Birds  were  fluting  and  calling  from 
every  branch  and  hedge,  as  if  it  were  the  first  day 
of  Spring.  The  trees,  vivid  in  the  morning  sunlight, 
swayed  and  rustled  gently  in  the  breeze;  the  air, 
soft  as  a  maiden's  kiss,  was  heavily  perfumed.  It 
was  a  day  for  love  and  lingering. 

As  he  walked  slowly  along  the  high-road  drinking 
in  the  beauty  of  the  morning,  Beresford  recalled 
with  a  smile  Tallis'  warning.  Ten  miles  would  be  a 
trifle  on  a  day  such  as  this,  he  decided.  Still  he 
would  take  no  undue  risks  and  walk  slowly,  loiter 
in  fact. 

He  had  lost  thirty-eight  days.  It  was  now  June 
9th.  It  was  strange  how  a  man's  ideas  could  change. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  RAIN-GIRL  71 

A  month  ago  there  had  been  nothing  he  desired 
beyond  the  open  road;  now  his  face  was  turned 
London-wards.  Why?  Again  that  inevitable 
"Why." 

The  country-side  was  evidently  no  place  for  a  man 
who  would  seek  quiet  and  a  day's  delight.  It 
seemed  capable  of  providing  a  veritable  orgy  of 
incident.  George  Borrow  was  right  after  all. 

After  half  an  hour's  sauntering,  he  was  glad  to 
rest  on  a  wayside  stone-heap.  There  was  plenty  of 
time,  he  told  himself,  and  no  need  to  hurry.  Again, 
it  was  pleasant  sitting  by  the  road-side,  listening  to 
the  birds  and  watching  the  life  of  the  hedges.  He 
had  become  conscious  of  a  strange  lassitude,  and  a 
still  stranger  inclination  on  the  part  of  his  legs  to 
double  up  beneath  him.  His  head,  too,  seemed  to 
be  behaving  quite  unreasonably.  There  were  curious 
buzzings  in  his  ears,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
momentary  giddiness  assailed  him.  What  if  Tallis 
should  prove  right  after  all,  that  he  really  was 
totally  unfit  for  more  than  a  mile  or  two? 

As  if  to  disprove  such  a  suggestion  he  rose  and 
continued  his  way,  telling  himself  that  as  he  became 
more  accustomed  to  the  exercise,  these  little  mani- 
festations of  reluctance  on  the  part  of  his  legs  and 
head  would  disappear. 

At  the  end  of  three  hours  he  had  covered  about 
two  miles.  The  rests  had  been  more  frequent,  and 
the  distances  covered  between  them  shorter.  It  now 
became  too  obvious  for  argument  or  doubt  that  he 
was  in  no  fit  state  for  the  high-road.  In  a  way  he 


72  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

was  not  sorry,  although  it  was  undignified  to  have 
to  confess  himself  beaten.  Still  London  was  calling 
as  she  had  never  called  to  him  before,  not  even  in 
those  nightmare-days  in  flooded  trenches  during 
1914.  After  all  perhaps  it  would  be  wiser  to  take 
train  and  run  no  risks.  Tallis  had  been  very  definite 
about  the  unwisdom  of  over-exertion. 

The  sight  of  an  approaching  cart  decided  him. 
As  it  drew  almost  level  Beresford  hailed  the  driver, 
a  little,  weather-beaten  old  man  with  ragged  whis- 
kers and  kindly  blue  eyes,  asking  if  he  would  give 
him  a  lift. 

The  man  pulled  up  and  invited  him  to  jump  in, 
explaining  that  he  was  bound  for  Leatherhead. 

As  he  climbed  into  the  cart,  Beresford  was  con- 
scious that  it  meant  surrender;  but  he  was  quite 
content. 

Thus  it  happened  that  at  half-past  three  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  day  he  had  set  out  from  "The  Two 
Dragons,"  Beresford  found  himself  at  Waterloo 
Station,  with  no  luggage  other  than  his  rucksack  and 
a  walking-stick,  wondering  where  he  should  spend 
the  night.  He  had  taken  the  precaution  of  booking 
a  room  at  the  Ritz-Carlton ;  but  he  was  not  due 
there  until  the  following  Monday.  In  any  case  he 
could  not  very  well  turn  up  without  luggage  and  in 
his  present  kit. 

Having  sent  a  telegram  to  Tallis  telling  him  of 
the  accuracy  of  his  lugubrious  prophesies,  Beresford 
hailed  a  taxi  and  drove  to  the  Dickens  Hotel  in 
Bloomsbury,  where  he  was  successful  in  obtaining  a 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  RAIN-GIRL  73 

room,  owing  to  the  sudden  departure  of  a  guest 
called  away  to  the  death-bedside  of  a  relative. 

That  night  he  slept  the  sleep  of  the  physically 
exhausted. 

The  morrow  and  the  remainder  of  the  week  he 
devoted  to  shopping.  He  found  that  an  hour  in  the 
morning,  with  another  hour  in  the  afternoon,  after 
he  had  been  fortified  by  lunch,  was  as  much  as  he 
could  stand.  His  tailor  was  frankly  pleased  to  see 
him,  and  tactfully  dissimulated  the  surprise  he  felt. 
In  the  matter  of  expedition  he  achieved  the  impos- 
sible. By  the  end  of  the  week  Beresford  found  him- 
self completely  equipped  with  all  that  was  necessary 
to  enable  him  to  proceed  upon  his  great  search. 

On  the  Monday  morning  when  he  drove  from  the 
Dickens  Hotel  to  the  Ritz-Carlton,  he  was  conscious 
of  two  things,  a  thrill  of  anticipation  and  the  blatant 
newness  of  his  luggage. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SEARCH  BEGINS 

AS  he  stood  hesitating  at  the  entrance    to  the 
dining-room     of    the     Ritz-Carlton,    there 
flashed  across  Beresford's  mind  the  memory 
of  the  rain-soddened  assembly-trench  packed  with 
men  in  whose  hearts  there  was  a  great  curiosity,  and 
in  whose  eyes  there  was  something  of  fear.    All  were 
striving  to  disguise  from  each  other  their  real  feel- 
ings, and  were  determined  to  go  over  the  top  as  if 
accustomed  to  it  from  childhood. 

Beresford  recalled  his  own  sensations,  the  feeling 
of  emptiness  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  the  rather 
unreasonable  behaviour  of  his  knees,  and  an  almost 
childish  desire  to  strike  matches  in  order  to  light  a 
cigarette  that  was  already  burning  cheerfully.  Elim- 
inating the  cigarette  episode,  he  experienced  all  the 
other  sensations  during  the  momentary  pause  on  the 
threshold  of  the  dining-room  of  the  Ritz-Carlton. 
Then  he  took  the  plunge  and  entered.  The  maitre 
d'hotel  conducted  him  to  his  table  and,  with  a  feeling 
of  genuine  relief  and  thankfulness,  Beresford  sank 
into  the  chair  held  back  for  him,  and  proceeded  to 
study  the  menu  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  it. 

74 


THE  SEARCH  BEGINS  75 

Now  that  he  was  actually  on  the  eve  of  what  he 
had  looked  forward  to  for  the  last  six  weeks,  he  felt 
an  unaccountable  nervousness  and  hesitation.  For 
some  reason  he  could  not  understand,  he  kept  his 
eyes  straight  in  front  of  him  instead  of  singling  out 
the  Rain-Girl  from  the  other  guests.  She  was  there, 
he  knew,  because  she  had  told  him  that  her  stay 
would  last  the  Season.  What  was  he  to  say  to  her? 
Would  she  recognize  him  and,  if  so,  would  she 
acknowledge  him? 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  as  to  be 
unconscious  of  the  arrival  of  the  hors  d'cewvres.  A 
discreet  cough  on  the  part  of  the  waiter,  bending 
solicitously  towards  him,  brought  back  his  wander- 
ing attention  to  the  business  of  the  moment. 

As  he  helped  himself  he  swiftly  envisaged  the 
guests  on  his  left.  She  was  not  there.  For  some 
minutes  his  gaze  did  not  wander  from  that  part  of 
the  room.  Now  that  he  was  on  the  eve  of  finding 
her,  he  seemed  almost  afraid  to  do  so.  He  wanted 
to  retain  as  long  as  possible  the  delicious  feeling  of 
suspense.  It  was  only  by  a  supreme  effort  of  will 
that  he  controlled  himself  sufficiently  to  scrutinise 
his  fellow-guests,  first  quickly,  then  slowly  and  with 
method. 

By  the  time  he  was  half  through  the  fish,  it  was 
becoming  increasingly  clear  to  him  that  the  Rain- 
Girl  was  not  in  the  dining-room.  In  spite  of  the 
growing  conviction  that  she  was  not  there,  he  now 
became  almost  feverish  in  his  anxiety  to  discover 
her  beneath  some  disguising  hat. 


76  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

When  at  length  he  was  satisfied  that  not  even  the 
most  fantastical  effort  of  the  modiste  was  capable 
of  concealing  the  head  of  the  Rain-Girl,  Beresford 
was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  intense  disappointment, 
almost  of  despair.  What  if  she  had  gone  away? 
She  might  be  ill,  or  possibly  her  aunt  was  ill  and 
they  had  been  forced  to  go  abroad.  What  a  fool  he 
had  been  to  build  so  confidently  on  that  one  hint,  the 
name  of  the  hotel  at  which  she  was  to  stay. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  on  the  untasted  glass  of 
burgundy  before  him  and,  remembering  Tallis'  ad- 
vice, he  drank  it  at  a  draught. 

Of  course  she  was  lunching  somewhere  with 
friends.  He  would  in  all  probability  see  her  at 
dinner.  People  could  not  be  expected  to  take  all  their 
meals  in  their  hotels,  as  if  they  were  staying  en  pen- 
sion at  Margate  or  Southend.  Really  he  was  becom- 
ing a  little  suburban,  not  to  say  provincial,  in  his 
ideas. 

As  the  meal  progressed  the  cloud  of  depression 
lightened,  and  by  the  time  that  he  had  finished  the 
second  glass  of  burgundy,  he  had  explained  to  his 
entire  satisfaction  the  absence  of  the  Rain-Girl  from 
lunch. 

After  the  meal,  he  took  a  short  walk  around  Bond 
Street,  Regent  Street  and  Piccadilly.  He  then  spent 
half  an  hour  in  the  Park,  placing  himself  behind  a 
tree  lest  he  should  be  recognised  by  some  of  his 
acquaintance,  who  would  carry  the  news  of  his  return 
to  his  family.  What  a  splendid  thing  it  must  be 
not  to  have  a  family.  Then  he  walked  slowly  up 


THE  SEARCH  BEGINS  77 

i 

Piccadilly,  determined  to  take  tea  at  the  Ritz-Carl- 
ton,  in  fact  he  had  already  decided  never  to  be 
absent  from  any  meal. 

In  the  lounge  he  went  through  the  same  process 
as  at  lunch,  striving  to  penetrate  the  creations  and 
camouflages  of  Paquin  and  Louise. 

No,  she  was  not  there.  He  would  wait  until 
dinner-time  when,  unmodified  by  millinery,  Nature 
might  more  easily  be  studied. 

After  tea  he  strolled  once  more  down  to  the  Park, 
loitering  about  by  the  Stanhope  Gate  until  nearly 
seven  o'clock.  As  he  drove  back  to  the  hotel,  he 
was  conscious  of  a  great  weariness  both  physical  and 
mental. 

Dressing  leisurely,  it  was  half-past  eight  before  he 
entered  the  dining-room,  feeling  in  a  modified  form 
the  same  thrill  he  had  experienced  at  lunch-time.  On 
this  occasion  he  immediately  proceeded  to  investi- 
gate his  fellow  guests;  but  although  he  scanned  the 
women  at  every  table  in  the  room,  there  was  no  one 
he  could  even  for  a  moment  mistake  for  the  Rain- 
Girl. 

This  time  burgundy,  although  the  same  as  he  had 
drunk  at  lunch,  failed  to  dissipate  the  cloud  of  de- 
pression that  descended  upon  him.  Something  had 
obviously  happened.  She  was  not  staying  at  the 
Ritz-Carlton.  In  all  probability  he  would  never  see 
her  again.  No  doubt  the  aunt,  of  whom  she  had 
spoken,  had  developed  nerves.  Damn  aunts!  What 
possible  use  were  aunts  in  the  economy  of  things? 
There  was  his  own  Aunt  Caroline,  for  instance.  She 


78  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

had  been  about  as  useful  to  him  as  a  mastodon  har- 
nessed to  a  brougham.  Possibly  she  had  gone  for 
another  tramp,  the  Rain-Girl,  not  Aunt  Caroline. 

Possibly he  sat  up  suddenly  at  the  thought. 

She  might  be  ill.  He  had  got  pneumonia,  perhaps 
she  had  got  it  on  the  following  day.  Perhaps  the 
symptoms  took  longer  to  manifest  themselves  in 
women  than  in  men.  How  was  he  to  find  out?  First, 
how  was  he  to  find  out  whether  she  were  in  the 
hotel  or  not?  He  could  not  very  well  go  to  the 
manager,  or  one  of  the  clerks,  give  a  description  of 
her,  and  ask  if  she  were  staying  there.  They  would 
in  all  probability  look  upon  him  with  suspicion  as 
an  undesirable.  It  was  all  very  tantalising  and  tor- 
menting. 

As  the  meal  progressed,  Beresford  began  to  find 
a  hundred  reasons  why  the  Rain-Girl  had  not  been 
present  at  lunch,  tea  or  dinner.  She  might  be  spend- 
ing the  day  on  the  river,  or  motoring.  Possibly  she 
had  been  away  for  the  week-end,  and  had  not  re- 
turned in  time  to  come  down  to  dinner.  After  all 
breakfast  would  prove  whether  or  no  she  were  in 
the  hotel.  People  did  not  generally  go  out  to  break- 
fast, unless  they  happened  to  be  friends  of  the  Prime 
Minister.  He  would  wait  until  breakfast. 

Yes,  that  burgundy  was  undoubtedly  a  good, 
sound  wine,  the  second  half-bottle  seemed  to  be 
even  better  than  the  first. 

That  night  Beresford  slept  soundly.  In  his 
dreams  he  covered  what  appeared  to  him  to  be  the 
whole  range  of  sub-conscious  absurdity.  Everything 


THE  SEARCH  BEGINS  79 

he  saw  or  encountered  seemed  to  turn  into  the  Rain- 
Girl,  or  from  the  Rain-Girl  into  something  else. 
The  camel  from  "Chu  Chin  Chow,"  which  he  had 
encountered  in  the  streets,  suddenly  dissolved  into 
the  Rain-Girl.  The  next  thing  he  knew  was  that 
he  was  endeavouring  to  ride  the  camel  through  the 
revolving  doors  of  the  Ritz-Carlton,  with  the  hall- 
porter  striving  to  bar  the  way,  and  a  policeman  try- 
ing to  pull  it  out  by  the  tail.  Then  in  the  Park  it 
was  the  Rain-Girl  who  came  up  and  asked  for  his 
penny  and,  instead  of  a  ticket,  she  gave  him  a  cup 
of  coffee.  Again,  he  was  riding  on  an  omnibus  when 
he  saw  the  Rain-Girl  in  a  taxi  beside  him.  Drop- 
ping over  the  side  of  the  'bus,  he  threw  his  arms 
round  her,  only  to  find  that  it  was  his  Aunt  Caroline, 
who  was  telling  him  not  to  be  a  fool. 

Beresford  awakened  with  a  dazed  feeling,  con- 
scious that  something  had  happened,  something 
disappointing;  but  unable  to  determine  just  what  it 
was.  Suddenly  he  remembered  the  incidents  of  the 
previous  day,  and  his  failure  to  find  the  Rain-Girl. 
Once  more  he  was  conscious  of  an  acute  feeling  of 
depression;  but  after  his  bath,  and  as  he  proceeded 
to  dress,  the  clouds  again  seemed  to  lift,  and  he 
became  hopeful. 

At  breakfast,  however,  another  disappointment 
awaited  him.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  Rain-Girl. 
He  lingered  over  his  meal  as  long  as  possible  in  the 
hope  that  she  were  breakfasting  late.  He  became 
conscious  even  that  the  waiters  were  regarding  him  a 


80  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

little  curiously.     It  was  not  usual  for  the  guests  to 
remain  at  the  breakfast-table  for  two  hours. 

When  at  length  Beresford  rose,  it  was  with  the 
firm  conviction  that  the  Rain-Girl  was  not  staying 
a.t  the  Ritz-Carlton.  In  spite  of  this  he  loitered 
about  the  hotel  until  noon,  when  he  took  another 
stroll  up  Piccadilly  and  along  Bond  Street,  and 
through  the  most  frequented  thoroughfares  of  the, 
West-End. 

Perhaps  she  was  away  for  a  long  week-end,  he 
told  himself,  and  would  be  back  to  lunch.  She  might 
even  be  confined  to  her  room  with  a  chill.  At  this 
thought  he  smiled.  The  warm,  mellow  sunshine 
seemed  to  negative  all  possibility  of  any  one  con- 
tracting a  chill. 

As  he  wandered  through  the  streets  thinking  of  all 
the  things  that  could  possibly  have  prevented  her 
from  being  at  three  consecutive  meals,  he  found 
himself  becoming  more  hopeful,  and  looking  for- 
ward to  lunch-time  as  presenting  another  chance 
of  a  possible  meeting. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  him,  so  forcibly  in  fact 
as  to  bring  him  to  a  standstill.  Had  she  and  her 
aunt  a  private  suite  of  rooms  in  which  their  meals 
were  served?  That  was  it.  Therein  lay  the  explana- 
tion of  why  he  had  not  seen  her.  She  was  just 
the  type  of  girl  who  would  dislike  a  hotel  dining- 
room,  he  told  himself,  in  fact  she  had  implied  as 
much  when  speaking  of  the  London  Season.  Had 
she  not  said  how  much  she  disliked  it,  and  how  she 


THE  SEARCH  BEGINS  81 

yearned  for  the  quiet  of  the  country?  What  a  fool 
he  had  been  not  to  think  of  it  before. 

He  returned  to  the  hotel  with  a  feeling  of  exhil- 
aration. A  new  optimism  had  taken  possession  of 
him.  He  was  no  longer  entirely  dependent  upon  the 
dining-room,  in  fact  that  was  least  likely  to  bring 
about  a  meeting  with  the  Rain-Girl.  At  the  same 
time  its  possibilities  must  not  be  under-estimated. 
No  doubt  occasionally  she  would  lunch  or  dine  there 
for  the  sake  of  variety,  possibly  when  entertaining 
friends,  to  whose  preferences  she  would  naturally 
defer.  Yes,  he  must  continue  his  search.  It  would 
not  do  to  be  discouraged  during  the  first  twenty-four 
hours.  She  was  spending  the  Season  in  London; 
about  this  she  had  been  quite  definite.  She  was  also 
going  to  stay  at  the  Ritz-Carlton;  here  again  she  had 
left  no  room  for  doubt. 

The  chances  of  anything  having  intervened  to 
prevent  this  arrangement  being  carried  out  were 
comparatively  remote,  certainly  not  sufficiently  tan- 
gible to  discourage  him  in  the  prosecution  of  his 
search.  He  would  leave  nothing  to  chance,  he  would 
go  to  all  the  public  social  functions  he  could,  walk 
in  the  Park,  stroll  about  the  streets.  He  would  go 
to  Westminster  Abbey  on  Sunday — a  good  idea  that; 
she  was  just  the  sort  of  girl  who  would  love  the 
Abbey,  attend  first  nights,  in  short  do  the  very  things 
from  which  a  few  weeks  ago  he  had  precipitately 
fled.  The  one  thing  he  would  not  do  was  to  renew 
old  friendships.  If  he  did  his  time  would  no  longer 


82  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

be  his  own,  and  he  was  determined  to  devote  every 
minute  of  the  day  to  his  search. 

The  days  he  continued  to  spend  in  aimless  wan- 
dering along  Piccadilly,  Pall  Mall,  the  Haymarket, 
and  the  Park,  looking  into  every  face  he  met,  now 
quickening  his  pace  to  overtake  some  likely  girl,  now 
slowing  down  to  allow  another  to  pass.  He  felt 
sure  that  the  police  had  him  under  observation.  It 
must,  he  decided,  appear  all  so  obvious. 

Several  times  he  jumped  into  a  taxi  and  instructed 
the  driver  to  follow  some  other  taxi  or  car.  The 
first  time  he  did  this  he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of 
embarrassment;  but  the  man's  sang-froid  convinced 
Beresford  that  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  pro- 
cedure. Once  he  found  himself  at  Richmond  before 
discovering  that  his  quarry  was  not  the  Rain-Girl. 
On  another  occasion  he  stopped  the  man  when  half- 
way to  Beckenham.  It  was  a  curious  thing,  he 
decided,  that  every  girl  in  a  car  or  taxi  who  bore  a 
sufficiently  striking  resemblance  to  the  Rain-Girl  to 
mislead  him,  seemed  to  be  bound  for  a  far-distant 
destination. 

On  one  occasion,  as  he  was  standing  at  the  corner 
of  Bond  Street,  preparatory  to  crossing,  a  taxi  darted 
out  into  the  stream  of  Piccadilly  traffic.  He  caught 
a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  occupant,  which  sent 
his  heart  racing.  Tumbling  into  an  empty  taxi  he 
gave  the  man  his  instructions.  The  next  moment  his 
vehicle  had  come  to  a  standstill  with  a  grinding  of 
tyres.  The  other  taxi  had  stopped  ten  yards  down 


THE  SEARCH  BEGINS  83 

Piccadilly,  and  the  girl  was  paying  the  driver.  It 
was  not  the  Rain-Girl. 

For  his  own  satisfaction  Beresford  measured  the 
distance  of  that  drive,  which  had  cost  him  half  a 
crown.  It  consisted  of  exactly  thirty-eight  paces, 
thirty-one  and  four-fifth  yards.  This,  he  decided, 
must  be  the  shortest  drive  on  record. 

It  was  fatiguing  work,  both  mentally  and  physi- 
cally, this  eternal  and  uncertain  pursuit,  and  he  was 
always  glad  to  get  back  to  the  Ritz-Carlton  for 
lunch,  tea  or  dinner.  Every  time  he  entered  the 
dining-room,  it  was  with  a  slight  thrill  of  anticipa- 
tion. Some  day  he  would  perhaps  see  her  sitting 
there,  and  know  that  the  search  was  ended. 

His  hopes  would  wane  with  the  day,  and  when 
night  came  and  dinner  was  over,  he  would  tell  him- 
self what  a  fool  he  was,  how  hopeless  was  the  quest 
upon  which  he,  like  some  modern  knight-errant,  had 
set  out;  yet  each  morning  found  him  eager  and 
determined  to  pursue  what  he  had  now  come  almost 
to  regard  as  his  destiny. 

Not  only  was  there  his  search  for  the  Rain-Girl; 
but  he  had  always  to  be  on  the  look  out  to  avoid 
possible  friends  and  acquaintance.  Once  he  had 
caught  sight  of  Lady  Drewitt  in  her  carriage,  on 
another  occasion  he  had  avoided  Lord  Peter  Bowen 
only  by  dashing  precipitately  into  an  A.B.C.  shop. 
How  he  escaped  he  could  never  be  quite  sure.  He 
had  a  vague  idea  that  he  pretended  to  have  mis- 
taken the  place  for  an  office  of  the  boy-messengers, 
or  boy  scouts,  he  could  not  remember  which;  but 


84  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

judging  from  the  look  on  the  faces  of  two  young 
women  behind  the  counter,  he  rather  thought  it 
must  have  been  the  boy  scouts. 

It  was  during  the  evening  of  the  day  of  this  last 
adventure  that  he  asked  himself  whether  or  no  he 
were  altogether  wise  in  neglecting  his  acquaintance. 
Possibly  the  Rain-Girl  knew  some  one  he  knew. 
Why  not  put  a  bold  face  on  things  and  let  people 
know  that  he  was  back  in  town?  Tell  them  frankly 
that  the  country  was  too  episodic  for  a  man  unpro- 
vided with  a  long  line  of  bucolic  ancestors.  They 
would  laugh,  the  men  would  indulge  in  superficial 
jokes  at  his  expense,  and  the  women  would  look  at 
him  a  little  pityingly,  as  they  always  looked  at 
Edward  Seymour.  Why  any  one  should  want  to 
pity  Edward  Seymour  seemed  difficult  to  understand. 
Those  who  merited  pity  were  the  poor  unfortunates 
who  had  to  live  or  associate  with  him. 

Yes,  in  future  he  would  look  out  for  old  friends 
rather  than  avoid  them.  He  would  run  round  and 
see  his  cousin,  Lord  Drewitt.  The  one  thing  he 
would  not  do,  however,  was  to  call  upon  Aunt  Caro- 
line. That  would  be  like  firing  at  a  water-spout,  a 
deliberate  invitation  to  trouble. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LORD  DREWITT'S  PERPLEXITIES 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  Beres- 
ford  found  himself  setting  out  upon  a 
subsidiary  quest,  the  discovery  of  the  friends 
and  acquaintance  that  hitherto  it  had  been  his  one 
object  to  avoid.  Whatever  his  own  state  of  mind, 
the  day  at  least  was  perfect.  June  had  spread  her 
gayest  gossamer  over  Piccadilly.  The  sun  shone 
as  if  in  a  moment  of  geographical  forgetfulness. 
Pretty  women  and  well-tailored  men  streamed  to 
and  from  the  Park,  whilst  the  roadway  was  a  des- 
perate congestion  of  traffic,  controlled  by  patient 
optimists.  Here  and  there  an  ampty  sleeve,  or  a 
pair  of  crutches,  acted  as  a  reminder  of  the  war, 
which  otherwise  seemed  countless  centuries  away. 

It  was  like  a  day  from  a  society  novel,  where 
it  never  rains  when  the  heroine  wears  her  best  frock. 
It  was  an  unreal,  artificial,  fantastical,  and  hitherto 
unprecedented  day.  From  Bond  Street  to  Knights- 
bridge,  not  an  umbrella  or  a  mackintosh  was  to  be 
seen,  nevertheless  it  was  June  in  London. 

Beresford  sauntered  idly  down  Piccadilly  in  the 
direction  of  Hyde  Park  Corner,  enjoying  the 
warmth  and  admiring  all  that  was  to  be  admired. 

85 


86  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Into  the  tin  pannikin  of  the  old  blind  man  outside 
Devonshire  House  he  dropped  a  shilling.  It  was 
clearly  a  day  for  silver  largesse,  for  light  and  love 
and  lingering.  He  smiled  at  the  thought  of  the 
absurdity  of  his  own  position.  Something  like  one 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds  stood  between  him  and 
absolute  destitution.  What  would  the  passers-by 
think  if  they  knew, — Lady  Tanagra  Elton,  for 
instance,  who  had  just  driven  by?  What  would  she 
say?  What  would ? 

"Hullo,  Drew!"  he  broke  off  his  speculations  sud- 
denly, as  a  tall,  fair-haired  man  was  about  to  pass 
him. 

Fixing  his  monocle  in  his  right  eye,  Lord  Drewitt 
gazed  at  his  cousin  with  expressionless  face. 

"My  dear  Richard,"  he  drawled,  "I  invariably 
cut  the  family  skeleton  during  the  Season.  Ghosts 
I  never  acknowledge,  even  in  August,  when  my  social 
standard  is  at  its  lowest  ebb." 

Beresford  laughed,  linked  his  arm  in  that  of  his 
cousin  and  turned  him  westward. 

"Anyhow,  you've  got  to  take  me  into  the  club 
and  give  me  a  barley-water,"  he  said. 

Although  different  in  temperament  and  character 
in  about  as  many  ways  as  two  men  can  differ,  Beres- 
ford and  his  cousin  had  always  been  on  the  best  of 
terms.  Lord  Drewitt's  pose  of  frank  cynicism,  soft- 
ened by  a  certain  dry  humour,  was  to  Beresford 
always  amusing. 

"To  give  a  man  a  title  and  two  thousand  a  year 
on  which  to  keep  it  out  of  the  mud,"  Lord  Drewitt 


LORD  DREWITT'S  PERPLEXITIES       87 

would  say,  "is  a  little  joke  that  only  the  Almighty 
and  the  Aunt  are  capable  of  appreciating." 

In  spite  of  his  expensive  tastes  and  insufficient 
income,  Lord  Drewitt  had  repeatedly  refused  press- 
ing invitations  to  join  the  Boards  of  quite  reputable 
companies.  On  one  occasion,  when  a  very  obtuse 
financier  had  doubled  his  original  offer  of  five 
hundred  a  year  for  "the  most  inconspicuous  tax  upon 
your  lordship's  time,"  Lord  Drewitt  had  lazily 
asked  him  if  he  had  ever  played  in  a  Varsity  match 
at  Lord's.  The  puzzled  city  man  confessed  that  he 
had  not. 

"Well,  I  have,"  was  the  reply,  "and  you  learn  a 
devil  of  a  lot  of  cricket  in  the  process,  more  than 
you  can  ever  forget  in  the  city." 

Lord  Drewitt  had  greatly  offended  his  aunt,  Lady 
Drewitt,  when  on  one  occasion  she  had  suggested 
that  he  might  go  into  the  city,  by  saying,  "My  dear 
aunt,  it  has  been  said  that  it  takes  three  generations 
to  make  a  gentleman.  I  am  the  third  Baron 
Drewitt." 

For  fully  a  minute  the  two  men  walked  westward 
without  speaking.  It  was  Drewitt  who  at  length 
broke  the  silence. 

"I  understood,  Richard,  that  you  had  forsaken 
the  haunts  of  men  in  favour  of  sitting  under  hedges 
and  haystacks." 

"I  had  to  give  it  up,"  said  Beresford  with  a  self- 
conscious  laugh.  "I  found  the  country  is  for  the 
temperamentally  robust." 


88  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Drewitt  turned  and  looked  at  him,  but  made  no 
comment. 

"There's  too  much  incident,  too  much  excitement, 
too  many  adventures  for  a  man  accustomed  to  the 
quiet  of  town  life,"  continued  Beresford.  "If  you 
really  want  to  be  alone  you  must  be  in  London." 

"I  believe  that  has  been  said  before,"  remarked 
Drewitt  drily,  as  they  climbed  the  steps  of  the  Diplo- 
matic Club  and  passed  into  the  smoking  room. 

With  a  sigh  Drewitt  threw  himself  into  a  chair. 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  he  enquired. 

"At  the  Ritz-Carlton." 

Drewitt  merely  raised  his  eyebrows  and,  beck- 
oning a  waiter,  ordered  whiskies-and-sodas. 

"What's  she  like?"  With  great  deliberation  he 
proceeded  to  light  a  cigarette.  Presently  he  raised 
his  eyes  and  looked  enquiringly  at  Beresford  over 
the  flame. 

"You  impute  everything  to  a  wrong  motive " 

began  Beresford. 

"A  woman  is  not  a  motive,  my  dear  Richard," 
interrupted  Drewitt;  "she's  an  imaginative  extrava- 
gance of  Nature,  like  a  mushroom,  or  the  aurora 
borealis." 

"You  expect,"  continued  Beresford,  ignoring  the 
interruption,  "that  every  man  is  capable  of  making 
an  ass  of  himself  about  some  woman  and,  naturally, 
you  are  never  surprised  when  he  does." 

"The  surprise  generally  comes  when  I  meet  the 
woman,"  was  the  dry  retort.  "What  does  the  Aunt 
say?" 


LORD  DREWITT'S  PERPLEXITIES       89 

"I  haven't  seen  her  yet,"  Beresford  confessed. 

"There  are  only  two  sorts  of  men  in  the  world, 
Richard,"  said  Drewitt  after  a  short  silence.  "Those 
who  make  asses  of  themselves  and  those " 

"How  is  she,"  interrupted  Beresford. 

"Who,  the  Aunt?" 

"Yes." 

"At  the  present  moment  she  is  much  occupied 
with  a  project  by  which  I  shall  become  the  legal  pro- 
tector of  a  lady's  freckled  and  rather  shapeless 
charms  and,  incidentally,  the  guardian  of  her  estate, 
amounting  to  I  forget  how  many  million  dollars." 

"Noblesse  oblige,"  laughed  Beresford. 

"Noblesse  be  damned,"  murmured  Drewitt 
evenly.  "The  situation  is  not  without  its  embarrass- 
ments," he  added. 

"But  surely  you  can  decline,"  said  Beresford. 
"You  have  your  two  thousand  a  year." 

"Two  thousand  a  year  is  just  sufficient  to  embar- 
rass a  man  who  otherwise  might  have  carved  out  a 
career  for  himself,  in  accordance  with  the  best  tradi- 
tions of  the  novel.  With  nothing  at  all  I  should 
have  got  into  the  illustrated  papers  as  a  romantic 
figure  in  London  Society;  but  with  two  thousand  a 

year "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and,  with  great 

deliberation,  extinguished  his  cigarette  in  the  ash- 
tray beside  him. 

"There  is  always  hope,  Drew,  'Unto  him  who 
hath  shall  be  given.' ' 

"Precisely,"  replied  Drewitt,  "unto  him  that  hath 
two  thousand  a  year  shall  be  given  Aunt  Caroline 


90  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

for  all  time.  She  has,  however,  a  peculiarly  discrim- 
inating nature.  She  recognises  the  inadequacy  of 
two  thousand  a  year  to  keep  up  the  title  of  the 
barony  of  Drewitt." 

"Some  day  she'll  give  you  a  little  out  of  her  own 
fifty  thousand  a  year,"  suggested  Beresford. 

"My  dear  Richard,"  Drewitt  drawled,  "there  is 
an  obvious  bourgeois  trait  in  you.  The  Aunt  is  a 
woman  of  originality  and  imagination.  She  does 
much  better  than  that.  She  collects  and  hurls  at  me 
all  the  heiresses  for  continents  round.  Such  figures, 
such  faces,  such  limbs,  exist  nowhere  outside  the 
imagination  of  a  German  caricaturist.  Sometimes 
they  have  attached  to  them  mammas,  sometimes 
papas,  which  merely  adds  to  the  horror  of  the  situ- 
ation. I  suppose,"  he  continued  resignedly,  "it  is 
due  to  the  rise  in  democracy  that  the  accent  and 
waist-measurement  of  wealth  should  be  as  obvious 
as  the  Chiltern  Hills." 

"But  surely  there  are  some  heiresses  with  attrac- 
tions, Drew,"  suggested  Richard. 

Drewitt  shook  his  head  in  profound  dejection. 

"None,  my  dear  Richard,  none.  Even  if  there 
were,  there  would  always  be  the  relatives.  Why 
is  it,"  he  demanded  plaintively,  "that  we  are 
endowed  with  relatives?" 

"That's  where  birds  and  animals  have  the  best 
of  it,"  said  Beresford,  watching  an  impudent-looking 
sparrow  on  the  window-ledge.  "They  don't  even 
know  their  relatives." 

"That,  too,  would  have  its  disadvantages,"  said 


LORD  DREWITT'S  PERPLEXITIES        91 

Drewitt  gloomily;  "if  we  didn't  know  them,  we 
might  adopt  them  as  friends,  and  only  find  out  our 
mistake  when  it  was  too  late." 

"But  why  trouble  about  marrying?"  asked  Beres- 
ford.  "You  can  rub  along  fairly  well  on  two  thou- 
sand a  year." 

"Rub  along,"  retorted  Drewitt  in  a  voice  that 
contained  something  of  feeling,  "I  can  rub  along: 
but  I  have  to  marry  and  produce  little  Drewitts  for 
the  sake  of  the  title.  I  can't  go  round  with  a  barrel- 
piano,  I  should  be  bound  to  catch  cold;  besides,  I 
have  no  sense  of  rhythm." 

Beresford  laughed  at  the  expression  of  unutter- 
able gloom  upon  his  cousin's  face. 

"To  throw  a  man  upon  the  tender  mercies  of  the 
world  as  the  third  peer  of  a  line  is  a  shameful  and 
humiliating  act." 

Drewitt  gazed  reflectively  at  the  cigarette  he  had 
just  selected  from  his  case.  Striking  a  match,  he 
lighted  it  with  great  deliberation. 

"All  titles,"  he  continued,  "like  the  evening 
papers,  should  begin  at  the  fourth  issue,  and  then 
there  might  be  a  sort  of  final  night  edition,  after 
which  the  line  would  become  extinct." 

"But  how "  began  Beresford. 

Drewitt  motioned  him  to  silence. 

"There  would  be  some  virtue  in  being  the  seventh 
Baron  Drewitt,"  he  explained.  "A  seventh  baron 
might  have  traditions,  a  family  ghost,  a  picture 
gallery  of  acquired  ancestors.  These  are  the  things 
which  make  a  Family.  No  family  should  be  admitted 


92  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

to  Burke  without  a  ghost,  one  that  walks  in  clanking 
chains,  although  why  ghosts  should  choose  these  un- 
musical accompaniments  I've  never  been  able  to 
discover.  Then  there  should  be  a  thoroughly  dis- 
reputable ancestor,  or  ancestress,  generally  called 
Sir  Rupert,  or  Lady  Marjorie,  and  finally  a  motto 
that  shall  foretell  the  happening  of  something  when 
something  else  takes  place." 

He  sipped  his  whiskey-and-soda  with  an  air  of 
deep  depression. 

"The  Drewitts  have  no  ghost,  nothing  more  dis- 
reputable than  myself,  and  the  nearest  thing  to  a 
family  motto  that  we  can  lay  claim  to  is  the  trade 
mark  of  the  far-famed  Drewitt  Ales,  a  ship  on  a 
sea  of  beer  above  the  thrilling  legend: 

"  'I  see  it  foam 
Where'er  I  roam.' 

Richard,"  he  said,  leaning  forward  and  speaking 
earnestly,  "that  is  what  keeps  me  back.  I've  just 
realised  it.  It's  that  damned  motto. 

"The  Aunt's  latest  scheme,"  he  continued  after  a 
pause,  "is  concerned  with  one  Lola  Craven,  reputed 
to  have  well  over  a  million  inherited  from  an  uncle 
who  undermined  the  constitution  of  the  British 
Empire  by  producing  New  Zealand  mutton,  which 
found  its  way  over  here  in  a  frozen  state.  I  tasted 
the  stuff  once,  I  actually  swallowed  the  first  mouth- 
ful," he  added. 

"What  is  she  like?"  asked  Beresford. 


LORD  DREWITTS  PERPLEXITIES       93 

"Probably  like  the  mutton,"  answered  Drewitt; 
"they  descend  upon  me  with  such  rapidity  that  I 
cannot  get  the  taste  of  one  out  of  my  mouth  before 
another  is  produced.  Ida  Hopkins  was  the  last, 
she  of  the  freckles.  Her  shapelessness,  my  dear 
Richard,  was  really  most  indelicate.  She  bulged 
wherever  she  should  have  receded,  and  receded 
everywhere  she  should  have  bulged." 

"And  what  did  Aunt  Caroline  say?"  enquired 
Beresford. 

"Oh,  she  said  quite  a  lot  about  saving  the  title, 
and  the  woman  who  was  content  with  her  place  by 
the  fireside.  I  pointed  out  some  of  Ida's  physical 
imperfections,  and  suggested  a  photographer's  dark- 
room in  preference  to  the  fireside;  but  the  Aunt  said 
that  if  I  wished  to  be  indelicate,  I  had  better  go; 
so  I  went,  and  Ida  has  taken  her  gross  inequalities 
to  another  market.  It's  all  very  tame  and  tedious," 
he  added. 

"What's  Lola  Craven  like?"  asked  Beresford. 

"I  haven't  the  most  remote  idea.  She  has  one 
advantage,  however,  she's  an  orphan,  with  only  an 
aunt  attachment." 

"Lola  Craven  is  also  a  much  better  name  than 
Ida  Hopkins." 

"When  you  marry,"  said  Drewitt,  "you  don't  live 
with  a  visiting-card,  you  have  to  live  with  a  woman. 
That's  what  makes  marriage  so  infernally  uncom- 
fortable. But  tell  me  about  yourself." 

Beresford  outlined  the  adventures  that  had  be- 
fallen him,  making  no  mention,  however,  of  the 


94  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Rain-Girl.  When  he  had  finished  Drewitt  regarded 
him  with  interest. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  have  always  liked  about 
you,  Richard,  you're  an  ass;  but  you  don't  seem 
to  mind  other  people  knowing  it.  Most  of  the  asses 
I  have  met  endeavour  to  camouflage  their  asinine 
qualities  with  lions'  skins.  Is  it  indiscreet  to  enquire 
what  you  propose  to  do?" 

"I  shall  carry  on  to  the  extent  of  my  finances," 
said  Beresford  with  a  smile. 

"And  then?" 

"Oh!     I  may  enter  for  the  Ida  Hopkins  stakes." 

"You  might,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  no  good.  Ida's 
out  for  plunder,  she  will  sell  her  charms  only  for  a 
title,  and  you  have  nothing  more  attractive  than  a 
D.S.O.  and  the  reputation  of  being  mentally  a  little 
unequally  balanced,  at  least  that  is  what  the  Aunt 
would  tell  her.  In  any  case  I  wouldn't  recommend 
Ida." 

"Why?" 

"Even  if  you  could  accommodate  your  ideas  to 
her  figure  and  its  defiance  of  the  law  of  feminine 
proportion,  you  would  find  her  freckles  a  source  of 
constant  worry.  They  are  like  a  dewildering  bed- 
room wall-paper  to  an  invalid.  You  have  to  try  and 
count  them,  and  of  course  you  lose  your  place  and 
start  again.  When  I  first  met  her  they  so  fascin- 
ated me  that  I  could  do  nothing  but  stare  at  her,  and 
she  blushed.  Heavens !  that  blush.  It  was  the  most 
awful  thing  I  have  ever  encountered.  I  felt  that  it 
must  inevitably  be  followed  by  a  violent  perspiration. 


LORD  DREWITT'S  PERPLEXITIES        95 

I  fled.  No,  Richard;  give  up  all  thought  of  Ida. 
Why,  even  now  I  live  in  daily  terror  lest  some  man 
I  know  may  marry  her  and  ask  me  to  be  best  man. 
Now  I  must  be  going.  I'm  due  at  the  Bolsovers'  at 
four  o'clock,  and  it's  already  half-past  five." 

Both  men  rose  and  walked  towards  the  door. 

"By  the  way,  is  it  absolutely  necessary  that  you 
should  stay  at  the  Ritz-Carlton?" 

"Absolutely,"  with  decision. 

"Ah,  well!  you're  an  interesting  sort  of  ass, 
Richard,  I  will  say  that  for  you.  I'll  see  that  you 
meet  Lola.  Sometimes  these  heiresses  like  a  fool 
without  a  title  just  as  much  as  one  with,  and  it 
would  please  the  Aunt  to  keep  her  in  the  family. 
Good-bye." 

Drewitt  hailed  a  taxi  and  drove  off,  Beresford 
turning  westward.  He  had  refused  his  cousin's 
invitation  to  lunch  on  the  morrow,  determined  to  be 
free  of  all  engagements.  He  turned  gloomily  into 
the  Park,  crossed  the  road  and  sat  down  upon  a 
vacant  chair.  In  a  novel  the  Rain-Girl  would  drive 
by  in  a  car  or  carriage,  bow  to  him  half  shyly  and 
with  a  blush.  He  would  start  up  and  she  would 
order  the  chauffeur  or  coachman  to  stop.  He  would 
be  introduced  to  the  aunt,  invited  to  lunch  and 

"Oh,  damn!" 

Beresford  stabbed  viciously  at  the  gravel  with  his 
stick,  and  glared  savagely  at  an  inoffensive  little 
man  with  grey  mutton-chop  whiskers,  who  looked 
amazed  that  any  one  could  be  profane  on  so  per- 
fect a  day. 


96  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Beg  pardon,  sir;  but  'er  Ladyship  would  like 
to  speak  to  you." 

The  voice  seemed  to  come  suddenly  from  no- 
where. Beresford  turned  to  find  Rogers,  Lady 
Drewitt's  first  footman,  at  his  elbow.  He  looked 
beyond  Rogers  and  saw  Lady  Drewitt  herself  seated 
in  her  carriage,  examining  him  attentively  through 
her  lorgnettes.  With  her  was  Mrs.  Edward  Sey- 
mour. 

Beresford  walked  slowly  and  reluctantly  towards 
the  carriage.  What  cursed  luck,  he  told  himself, 
to  run  up  against  Aunt  Caroline  so  early  in  his  ad- 
venture. 

Caroline,  Lady  Drewitt,  was  the  widow  of  the 
second  Baron  Drewitt  of  Tonscombe,  who  had  died 
at  the  age  of  fifty,  leaving  to  his  lady  an  enormous 
fortune  and  to  his  nephew,  Philip,  the  title  with  two 
thousand  a  year.  The  first  Baron  had  gone  "up- 
stairs" by  virtue  of  the  famous  Drewitt  Ales,  and 
a  profound  belief  in  the  soundness  of  Tory  princi- 
ples and  legislative  inspiration. 

Lady  Drewitt  took  it  as  her  mission  in  life  to 
see  that  "the  family"  behaved  itself.  Whenever  a 
Drewitt  or  a  Challice — Lady  Drewitt  was  a  Chal- 
lice  before  her  marriage — got  into  difficulties  the 
first  thought  was,  what  would  Lady  Drewitt  think? 
but  this  was  as  nothing  to  the  morbid  speculation 
as  to  what  she  would  probably  say.  She  had  a 
worldly  brain  and  a  biting  tongue.  She  never  strove 
to  smooth  troubled  waters;  but  by  making  them  in- 
tolerably rough  frequently  achieved  the  same  end. 


LORD  DREWITT'S  PERPLEXITIES       97 

As  Beresford  approached,  Lady  Drewitt  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  him  with  uncompromising  intent-1 
ness  through  her  lorgnettes. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Richard?"  she  de- 
manded in  level  tones  as  he  reached  the  side  of  the 
carriage. 

"That's  just  what  has  been  puzzling  me,"  said 
Beresford,  smiling  across  at  his  cousin  Cecily.  "I 
think  the  weather  people  call  it  the  approach  of  an 
anti-cyclone.  For  June  in  London  it's  really " 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Richard.  Why  are  you  in  Lon- 
don?" 

"My  dear  Aunt,  it's  June  and  I  am  a  Challice. 
We  Challices  all  gravitate  towards  the  metropolis 

in  June  just  as  the  cuckoo  gravitates What  is 

it  the  cuckoo  gravitates  towards,  Cecily?"  he  en- 
quired, turning  suddenly  to  Mrs.  Edward. 

"You  said  that  you  were  going  to  sell  all  your — 
your " 

"Duds,"  suggested  Beresford  helpfully,  as  Lady 
Drewitt  hesitated.  "I  did."  He  enjoyed  Mrs. 
Edward's  scandalised  look. 

"Then  how  is  it ?"  again  she  hesitated. 

"I  bought  more.  My  tailor  seemed  quite 
pleased,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought. 

"But  why  are  you  in  town,  Richard?"  burst  out 
Mrs.  Edward,  unable  longer  to  restrain  herself. 
Her  tone  seemed  to  imply  that  Beresford's  being 
in  London  was  an  offence  against  good  taste. 

"The  bucolic  life  was  too  much  for  me,  Cecily. 
You  would  be  astounded  at  the  bewildering  manner 


98  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

in  which  adventures  descend  upon  the  would-be  vaga- 
bond and  recluse." 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  demanded  Lady  Drew- 
itt,  with  the  air  of  one  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

"At  the  Ritz-Carlton." 

"The  Ritz-Carlton!"  Lady  Drewitt's  lorgnettes 
fell  from  her  nerveless  hand  and  her  jaw  dropped. 

"A  little  bourgeois  perhaps,"  admitted  Beresford, 
"but  it's  really  quite  respectable." 

"You  will  come  and  dine  with  me  to-night,  Rich- 
ard." There  was  grim  determination  in  Lady 
Drewitt's  tone. 

"I'm  afraid  I  cannot,  Aunt  Caroline,  I " 

"Then  lunch  to-morrow." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  engaged  for  all  meals 
for  the  next  six  weeks."  Beresford  had  determined 
not  to  risk  missing  the  Rain-Girl  by  either  lunching 
or  dining  away  from  the  Ritz-Carlton. 

Lady  Drewitt  continued  to  stare. 

*'If  I  may  run  in  to  tea  one  afternoon,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"To-morrow,  then,  at  four."  Lady  Drewitt's 
jaws  closed  with  a  snap. 

With  a  smile  and  a  bow  Beresford  lifted  his  hat 
and  strolled  away,  feeling  that  there  were  com- 
pensations in  a  life  that  permitted  a  man  to  refuse 
two  invitations  from  a  wealthy  relative. 

Lady  Drewitt  drove  home,  and  beside  her  sat 
Mrs.  Edward,  who  had  just  remembered  with  a  sigh 
of  misgiving  that  she  and  her  husband  were  dining 
that  night  with  their  "dear  Aunt  Caroline." 


CHAPTER  VII 

LADY  DREWITT  SPEAKS   HER  MIND 

AS  Payne  threw  open  the  door  on  the  follow- 
ing afternoon,  Beresford  thought  he  de- 
tected a  look  of  sympathy  upon  his  features, 
and  he  mentally  decided  that  the  first-footman  had 
narrated  in  the  servants'-hall  the  conversation  in  the 
Park  of  the  previous  afternoon. 

"Well,  Payne,  how's  the  rheumatism?"  he  en- 
quired. 

"It's  been  a  little  better  lately,  sir;  I've  taken  to 
drinking  water." 

"Good  heavens!  with  nothing  in  it?" 

Payne  shook  his  head  and  smiled  sadly. 

"We  shall  hear  of  your  starting  a  temperance 
hotel  next,"  said  Beresford,  as  Payne  led  the  way 
to  the  morning-room. 

"God  forbid,  sir,"  he  said  fervently;  then,  throw- 
ing open  the  door,  he  announced  Beresford. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Richard?"  de- 
manded Lady  Drewitt,  before  Payne  had  time  to 
close  the  door  behind  him. 

"The  meaning  of  what,  Aunt  Caroline?"  asked 
Beresford,  as  he  seated  himself. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean,"  said 

99 


100  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Lady  Drewitt  grimly.     "Why  are  you  in  town?" 

"I've  had  pneumonia,  and  the  doctor  ordered  me 
to  Folkestone,  so " 

"Then  why  didn't  you  go  there?"  demanded  Lady 
Drewitt  uncompromisingly. 

Beresford  racked  his-  brains  for  some  reason  he 
could  give  as  to  why  he  had  not  gone  direct  to  Folke- 
stone. 

"You  see,"  he  began  hesitatingly,  then  with  in- 
spiration, "I  had  to  come  to  town  to  get  some 
clothes."  He' looked  down  at  his  well-groomed  per- 
son. 

"You  don't  want  clothes  at  Folkestone  in  June," 
snapped  Lady  Drewitt. 

"Men  do,  Aunt  Caroline,"  said  Beresford;  "it's 
only  the  seaside-girl  who  does  without." 

"Don't  be  indelicate."  Then  after  a  pause  she 
continued,  "You  come  and  tell  me  you  are  about  to 
become  a  tramp,  and  the  next  I  hear  is  that  you  are 
living  at  the  Ritz-Carlton.  I  want  to  know  what  it 
means." 

"To  be  frank,  Aunt  Caroline,  it  means  that  the 
country-side  was  too  exciting  for  me.  It  requires 
a  constitution  of  bronze  and  a  temperament  of  re- 
inforced concrete." 

"When  you  see  your  way  to  talk  sense,  Richard, 
I  shall  possibly  be  able  to  understand  you."  Lady 
Drewitt  folded  her  hands  in  her  ample  black  silk 
lap  and  waited. 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Beresford  pleasantly.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact  I  entirely  fail  to  understand  myself." 


LADY  DREWITT  SPEAXS  HER  MIND     101 

"You  are  my  sister's  only  son." 

He  recognised  the  grim  note  of  duty  in  his  aunt's 
voice.  As  he  did  not  reply  she  continued: 

"And  it  is  my  duty  to " 

"Couldn't  we  leave  duty  out  of  the  question,"  he 
suggested,  "at  least  for  the  present?" 

"I  demand  an  explanation,  Richard,"  continued 
Lady  Drewitt  inexorably. 

"There's  very  little  to  tell,"  said  he.  "I  started 
out  on  my  adventure,  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  day 
I  got  pneumonia.  That  meant  five  weeks  spent  at 
'The  Two  Dragons,'  with  a  sort  of  musical-comedy 
doctor  and  an  insane  nurse.  Incidentally  it  cost  me 
well  over  fifty  pounds.  I  then  decided  that  the 
country  was  too  exciting  for  me,  so  I  came  back  to 
town  for  a  rest." 

"But  why  are  you  staying  at  the  Ritz-Carlton?" 

"It  does  as  well  as  any  other  place,"  was  the  re- 
sponse, "although  I  must  confess  that  in  poaching 
eggs  they  are  not  inspired,  but  then  I  never  liked 
eggs ;  still,  their  bisque  a  I'ecrevisse  leaves  little  room 
for  criticism." 

"What  does  it  cost  you  there?" 

"I  really  haven't  been  into  the  financial  aspect  of 
the  affair,"  said  Beresford.  "I  should  say  roughly 
from  twenty-five  to  thirty  pounds  a  week.  It's 
really  quite  moderate  as  things  are." 

Lady  Drewitt  gasped;  but  recovered  herself  in- 
stantly. 

"And  you  have  about  two  hundred  pounds  left," 
she  said,  making  a  swift  mental  calculation. 


102  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"One  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds  three-and- 
sixpence-halfpenny,  to  be  strictly  accurate,"  re- 
sponded Beresford.  "I  take  stock  of  my  finances 
every  morning.  I  should  add,  in  justice  to  myself, 
that  I  owe  not  any  man." 

"So  that  at  about  the  end  of  four  weeks  you  will 
be •" 

"Impoverished,  but  as  the  Season  will  be  over 
and " 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?"  demanded  Lady 
Drewitt. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said  candidly,  "I  don't 
propose  to  do  anything  in  particular.  I'm  just 
drifting." 

"How  are  you  going  to  live?"  Lady  Drewitt  was 
not  to  be  denied. 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it." 

Lady  Drewitt  was  clearly  nonplussed. 

"You  can't  live  without  money,"  she  announced 
presently. 

"Need  we  dot  all  the  Ts'  and  cross  all  the  't's'?" 
he  enquired  smilingly.  "I  might  try  a  barrel-piano 
with  a  ticket  on  it  announcing  that  I  am  a  cousin 
of  Lord  Drewitt  and  nephew  of  Lady  Drewitt." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Richard,"  was  the  uncompro- 
mising response.  "Do  you  expect  me "  she 

paused. 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  have  never 
expected  anything  of  you,  Aunt  Caroline.  That  is 
why  we  have  always  been  such  excellent  friends." 


LADY  DREWITT  SPEAKS  HER  MIND   103 

For  a  moment  Lady  Drewitt  eyed  Beresford  se- 
verely. 

"I  shall  have  to  consult  Drewitt  and  your  cousin, 
Edward  Seymour,"  she  announced. 

"I  beg  of  you  not  to,"  he  said.  "Poor  Drewitt 
is  fully  occupied  in  dodging  the  heiresses  you  hurl 
at  his  head,  and  as  for  Edward,  I  never  could  place 
any  reliance  in  the  opinion  of  a  man  with  extrava- 
gant tastes  and  no  chin.  Besides,  he  is  an  echo  of 
his  wife,  who  is  a  reflection  of  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"They  neither  of  them  have  a  will  of  their  own," 
said  Beresford,  "and  always  reflect  your  opinions." 

"I  shall  consult  Drewitt,"  announced  Lady 
Drewitt. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  of  no  use.  I  consulted  him  my- 
self yesterday  afternoon." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  suggested  that  I  might  take  a  sort  of  re- 
versionary interest  in  the  heiresses  that  were  pro- 
duced for  his  approval.  He  thought  I  might  begin 
on  Miss  Ida  Hopkins;  but  he  was  frankly  pessimis- 
tic. He  doubted  if  I  could  refrain  from  trying  to 
count  her  freckles." 

"Don't  be  flippant,  Richard."  Lady  Drewitt  was 
annoyed.  "You  have  your  career  to  consider.  You 
are  young." 

"But  I  was  a  failure  at  Whitehall,"  he  added. 

"If  you  don't  like  the  Foreign  Office,"  persisted 
Lady  Drewitt,  "why  don't  you  do  something  else?" 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"There  is  so  little  open  to  a  man  with  all  the  limi- 
tations of  a  university  education." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  lazy."  Lady  Drewitt's  tone 
implied  no  doubt  whatever. 

"No,"  said  Beresford  evenly,  "I  don't  think  I  can 
be  accused  of  being  lazy;  it's  merely  that  I  don't 
want  to  do  anything.  I'm  tired  of  all  this  praise 
lavished  on  industry.  I  shall  be  just  as  happy  in 
the  next  world  as  those  inventive  geniuses  who 
first  conceived  screw-tops  for  bottles,  or  the  sock- 
suspender.  I " 

"You  are  talking  nonsense." 

"I'm  afraid  I  am,"  was  the  smiling  retort. 

"You  have  already  thrown  up  an  excellent  ap- 
pointment for  no  reason  whatever." 

"On  the  contrary,  Aunt  Caroline,  I  threw  it  up 
for  a  very  excellent  reason.  I  wanted  to  develop 
my  soul." 

"Fiddlesticks." 

Beresford  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  confess  I  had  reckoned  without  pneumonia," 
he  added. 

"I  told  you  that  you  would  catch  cold,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort,"  said  Lady  Drewitt  with  unction. 

"You  did,  Aunt  Caroline;  I  give  you  every  credit 
for  pre-vision." 

"And  now  you  come  back  to  London,  spend  your 
money  buying  new  clothes  and  in  expensive  living, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  month  you'll  be  a  beggar." 

"Impoverished  was  the  word,  aunt.  One  can  be 
impoverished  without  begging." 


LADY  DREWITT  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    105 

"But  how  are  you  to  live?" 

"I  didn't  say  I  was  going  to  live.  I  might  pos- 
sibly die  artistically  of  starvation." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  the  colonies?"  demanded 
Lady  Drewitt. 

"I  have  never  been  enthusiastic  about  the  colo- 
nies," he  replied.  "I  dislike  Australian  wines, 
Canadian  cheese,  New  Zealand  mutton,  and  in 
France  it  was  a  South  African  who  saved  my  life. 
Then  to  add  insult  to  injury  the  authorities  gave  him 
the  D.C.M.  No,  Aunt  Caroline,  the  colonies  no 
more  exist  for  me  than  they  do  for  the  Kaiser." 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  persisted 
Lady  Drewitt. 

"Frankly  I  haven't  the  foggiest  idea,"  he  admit- 
ted, as  Payne  entered,  followed  by  Rogers  with  the 
tea-tray,  which  he  proceeded  to  place  beside  Lady 
Drewitt.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence, 
during  which  Payne  and  Rogers  withdrew.  "No 
sugar,  please,"  said  Beresford,  as  Lady  Drewitt 
poised  a  lump  over  his  cup. 

"If  you  would  go  to  the  colonies,  Richard,  I  might 
be  prepared  to " 

"Give  me  your  blessing,  exactly,  Aunt  Caroline," 
interrupted  Beresford  suavely.  "I  have,  however, 
made  it  a  rule  ever  since  we  have  been  acquainted 
to  value  your  good  opinion  more  than  your  largesse." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  are  too  shrewd  not  to  appreciate  that  wealth 
has  strange  and  devious  influences.  It  causes  to 
flow  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  it  makes  one's  con- 


106  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

temporaries  strangely  tolerant,  it  permits  the  pos- 
sessor to  say  things  that  would  otherwise  not  be  tol- 
erated. In  short,  it  does  quite  a  lot  of  things.  No, 
I  have  never  expected  your  wealth,  nor  do  I  want 
it.  Your  advice,  like  greatness,  is  thrust  upon  me ; 
but  I  prefer  to  meet  you  on  equal  terms." 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  strange  look  in  Lady 
Drewitt's  eyes,  as  she  stared  fixedly  at  her  nephew. 

"You're  a  fool,  Richard,"  she  said  with  decision. 
"You  always  were  a  fool;  but " 

"I  am  at  least  an  honest  fool.  I  must  have  an- 
other one  of  those  cream  cakes,"  he  added.  "You 
see  a  man  with  only  four  weeks  of  social  life  can 
eat  anything.  He  hasn't  to  think  of  his  waist-meas- 
urement." 

Lady  Drewitt  regarded  him  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression. 

"I  shall  have  to  see  Drewitt  about  you,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

"He  is  too  fully  occupied  with  his  own  concerns. 
When  we  discussed  the  reversionary  interest  in  his 
heiresses,  he  asked  me  what  I  had  to  give  in  return, 
and  I  had  to  confess  that  all  I  possessed  was  a  tem- 
perament. No  woman  wants  a  husband  with  a 
temperament,  at  least,  she's  not  prepared  to  pay 
for  it." 

"I  shall  speak  to  your  cousin  Edward  Seymour," 
announced  Lady  Drewitt  with  decision. 

"I  assure  you  it  will  be  of  no  use,  Aunt  Caroline. 
With  that  long  fair  moustache  of  his,  Edward  al- 
ways reminds  me  of  a  dissipated  and  diminutive 


LADY  DREWITT  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    107 

Viking.  There  are,  however,  always  Drew's  heir- 
esses," he  said  as  he  rose.  "If  you  will  put  in  a 
good  word  for  me,  say  that  I'm  tame,  with  no  par- 
ticularly bad  habits,  don't  like  cards,  seldom  take 
cold,  and  am  as  domesticated  as  a  foundling  cat,  I 
feel  I  have  a  chance."  He  held  out  his  hand,  and 
Lady  Drewitt  extended  hers  with  reluctance. 

"Richard,  you're  a  fool,"  she  announced  with  al- 
most vindictive  decision.  He  smiled,  bowed  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Payne,"  he  remarked  as  the  butler  opened  the 
door  for  him,  "there  are  worse  things  in  life  than 
rheumatism;"  and  he  went  down  the  steps  leaving 
Payne  to  digest  the  remark. 

As  Beresford  walked  along  Curzon  Street  he  saw 
the  Edward  Seymours  approaching;  their  mission 
was  too  obvious  to  require  explanation.  They  were 
calling  on  Lady  Drewitt  to  hear  the  result  of  the 
interview  with  her  prodigal  nephew. 

"Well,"  sneered  Edward  Seymour  in  the  tone  he 
invariably  adopted  to  Beresford,  "have  you  enjoyed 
yourself?" 

"Immensely,  thank  you,  Edward,"  was  the  smil- 
ing reply.  "It  always  does  me  good  to  hear  Aunt 
Caroline  talk  of  you." 

"Talk  of  me."  There  was  eagerness  and  anxi- 
ety in  Edward  Seymour's  voice,  as  he  looked  sharply 
at  Beresford,  and  then  apprehensively  in  the  di- 
rection of  his  wife. 

"What  did  dear  Aunt  Caroline  say  about  Ed- 
ward?" enquired  Mrs.  Edward  sweetly. 


108  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I'm  afraid "  began  Beresford,  then  paused. 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  repeat  it  before  you,  Cecily." 

Mrs.  Edward  looked  at  him  sharply.  Into  Ed- 
ward Seymour's  eyes  had  crept  a  look  of  vindictive 
malice. 

"It's  only  his  lies,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "He's 
jealous  of  me." 

Beresford  looked  him  up  and  down  appraisingly. 
The  little  man  squirmed  under  the  smiling  scorn 
he  saw  in  his  cousin's  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Beresford,  "I  think  that  must  be  the 
explanation.  Good-bye,"  and  lifting  his  hat  he 
passed  on,  feeling  refreshed  as  a  result  of  the  en- 
counter. 

With  something  like  trepidation  Edward  Seymour 
followed  his  wife  into  Lady  Drewitt's  morning- 
room.  It  was  always  an  ordeal  for  him  to  meet  his 
aunt.  She  never  hesitated  to  express  her  supreme 
contempt  for  the  husband  of  her  favourite  niece. 

"Dear  Aunt  Caroline,"  gushed  Mrs.  Edward. 
"We've  just  seen  Richard.  I'm  afraid  he  has  been 
worrying  you." 

"Sit  down,  Cecily,"  she  commanded;  and  Mrs. 
Edward  subsided  into  a  chair.  "Don't  fidget,  Ed- 
ward," she  snapped,  turning  irritably  to  her  nephew. 

Edward  Seymour  started  back  from  the  album 
he  was  fingering,  as  if  some  one  had  run  a  hat-pin 
into  him. 

"Make  him  sit  down  and  be  quiet,  Cecily,"  said 
Lady  Drewitt  complainingly.  At  a  look  from  his 
wife  Edward  Seymour  wilted  into  a  chair. 


LADY  DREWITT  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    109 

"What  did  Richard  say  to  you?"  demanded  Lady 
Drewitt. 

"He  didn't  say  anything,  Aunt  Caroline,"  began 
Mrs.  Edward  tactfully,  "but " 

"He  was  very  rude  to  me,"  interrupted  Edward 
Seymour  peevishly. 

"What  did  he  say?"  demanded  Lady  Drewitt, 
fixing  her  uncomfortable  nephew  with  her  eye. 

"It  was  his  manner,"  Mrs.  Edward  hastened  to 
say.  "His  manner  is  always  very — very  rude  to 
poor  Edward." 

Lady  Drewitt  gave  expression  to  a  noise  sugges- 
tive of  a  horse  clearing  its  nostrils  of  fodder-dust. 

"He's  mad,"  muttered  Lady  Drewitt  half  to  her- 
self; "but  he's  got  the  real  Challice  independence." 

"I'm  afraid  he  worries  you  a  lot,  dear  Aunt 
Caroline,"  said  Mrs.  Edward,  alarmed  lest  out  of 
the  kindness  of  her  heart  Lady  Drewitt  should  take 
a  too  generous  view  of  Beresford's  shortcomings. 

"He  doesn't  worry  me  nearly  so  much  as  Edward 
does  fidgeting,"  snapped  Lady  Drewitt,  fixing  Ed- 
ward Seymour  with  her  eye.  "Why  on  earth  do 
you  bring  him  with  you,  Cecily?" 

Mrs.  Edward  threw  a  warning  glance  at  her  hus- 
band, then  catching  her  aunt's  eye  she  smiled  at  him 
indulgently,  much  as  if  he  had  been  a  favourite  dog 
whose  removal  from  the  room  was  under  discus- 
sion. 

For  half  an  hour  Mrs.  Edward  strove  to  extract 
from  Lady  Drewitt  what  had  taken  place  during 
her  interview  with  Beresford;  but  without  result. 


110  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Lady  Drewitt  was  not  without  shrewdness.  Cecily 
Seymour  was  useful  to  her  as  a  target  for  her  arrows 
of  scorn;  but  she  possessed  no  illusions  as  to  the  na- 
ture of  her  niece  and  nephew's  devotion.  The  un- 
compromising independence  of  Beresford,  although 
it  angered  her,  at  the  same  time  commanded  her  re- 
spect. She  was  a  woman,  and  the  strong  mascu- 
line personality  of  Beresford  appealed  to  her  in 
spite  of  herself.  She  demanded  subservience;  yet 
scorned  those  who  gave  it.  She  strove  to  break 
spirits,  all  the  time  instinctively  admrring  those  that 
refused  to  be  broken. 

As  the  Edward  Seymours  took  their  leave  Lady 
Drewitt  said — 

"Cecily,  don't  bring  Edward  again,  he  fidgets  too 
much." 

On  the  way  home  Mrs.  Edward  made  it  clear  to- 
her  lord  that  if  Aunt  Caroline  failed  in  what  they 
hoped  she  would  not  fail,  it  would  be  entirely  due 
to  his  constitutional  inability  to  keep  still. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  miserably. 

"You're  not,  you  do  it  on  purpose,"  she  retorted 
in  a  tone  which  convinced  him  that  on  the  other  side 
of  their  front-door  there  awaited  him  tears,  and 
yet  more  tears. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   HEIRESS  INDISPOSED 

RICHARD,  I  require  moral  courage,"  said 
Drewitt,  lazily,  as  he  crumpled  up  into  a 
basket-chair,  which  squeaked  protestingly 
beneath  his  weight,  "and  if  the  funds  will  run  to  it, 
a  whisky-and-soda." 

Beresford  beckoned  to  the  waiter  and  gave  the  or- 
der. Hoskins  had  telephoned  earlier  in  the  day  to 
say  that  Drewitt  would  be  calling  at  the  Ritz-Carlton 
about  nine. 

"I'm  bound  for  the  Aunt's,"  continued  Drewitt 
a  few  minutes  later,  when,  fortified  by  the  whisky- 
and-soda,  he  proceeded  to  light  a  cigarette.  "There 
we  shall  meet  the  latest  aspirant  to  my  hand  and 
what  might  be  called  'the  trimmings.' ' 

"Lola  Craven?" 

"The  same.  Incidentally  you  accompany  me.  It 
has  been  said,  I  believe,  that  romance  brought  up 
the  nine-fifteen.  We  shall  in  all  probability  be  a 
few  minutes  late." 

"But  why  on  earth  do  you  want  me?  I  haven't 
been  invited." 

"It's  a  dinner-party,  Richard,  and  the  Aunt  never 
desires  poor  relations  at  dinner-parties.  At  a  crush, 

in 


THE  HAIN-GIRL 

or  a  tea,  it  doesn't  matter,  they  can  be  pushed  on 
one  side,  like  a  dubious  oyster;  but  at  dinner  they 
must  to  some  extent  establish  themselves  in  the  gen- 
eral eye." 

"But  why  do  you  want  me  to  go  with  you?"  per- 
sisted Beresford. 

"I  require  moral  courage,  Richard,  and  your 
clothes  are  newer  than  mine.  Apart  from  that,  for 
a  poor  relation  you  are  really  quite  presentable." 

"Thanks,"  said  Beresford  drily. 

"For  another  thing  I  want  a  setting." 

"A  setting!" 

"The  Aunt  is  rather  obvious  in  her  choice  of  men. 
For  instance,  to-night  she  will  have  a  wonderful  col- 
lection of  undesirables.  They  will  either  have  no 
hair  on  their  heads,  or  hair  all  over  their  faces,  like 
retired  naval  officers — celibate,  of  course.  They 
are  bound  to  be  old  and  dull." 

"But  why  the "  began  Beresford. 

"One  moment,"  Drewitt  raised  a  protesting  hand. 
"She  desires  that  I  shall  have  no  rival  to  my  charms. 
That  is  why  I'm  taking  you.  I  want  to  demonstrate 
to  all  whom  it  may  concern  that  I  can  shine,  even  in 
the  presence  of  another  presentable  man." 

"Aunt  Caroline  won't  like  it,"  said  Beresforrl  du- 
biously. 

"As  she  never  likes  anything,  your  presence  will 
not  cause  any  deviation  from  the  normal." 

"But  I  thought  you  said  it  was  a  dinner,"  said 
Beresford. 

"It  was  and  is;  but  I  gave  a  miss  in  baulk  to  the 


THE  HEIRESS  INDISPOSED  113 

meal.  I  cannot  stand  the  Aunt's  dinners.  I  told 
Hoskins  to  telephone  that  I  had  swallowed  a  fish- 
bone, or  a  stud,  I've  forgotten  which.  I  shall  know 
when  I  get  there." 

"But  what  the  deuce  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 
asked  Beresford,  puzzled  to  account  for  his  cousin's 
insistence  on  his  presence. 

"Nothing,  my  dear  Richard,  just  what  you  are 
always  doing  in  that  inimitable  and  elegant  manner 
of  yours.  You  will  merely  act  as  a  foil.  The 
Aunt  arranges  these  things  rather  badly.  She  fails 
to  understand  that  if  you  like  fair  men,  you  like 
them  more  by  virtue  of  the  presence  of  a  dark  man, 
even  if  he  happens  to  be  an  obvious  fool." 

"Thanks!" 

"Not  at  all,"  was  the  reply;  "you  and  I  probably 
are  the  two  most  obvious  fools  west  of  St. 
Stephen's." 

"I'll  go  if  you  wish  it,  Drew;  but  I'd  rather  not. 
Where  Aunt  Caroline  is  concerned  I'm  rather " 

"A  homoeopathist,  exactly.  I  quite  sympathise 
with  you.  To-night,  however,  I  shall  take  it  as  a 
kindness  if  you'll  weigh-in,"  and  he  rose  to  indicate 
that  the  time  of  departure  had  come.  "I  enjoy 
your  conversation,  Richard,  I  enjoy  it  intensely;  but 
I  cannot  afford  it  at  nearly  a  penny  a  minute.  My 
taxi  is  waiting,"  he  explained. 

They  drove  the  short  distance  to  Curzon  Street 
in  silence. 

By  the  hum  of  conversation  that  greeted  them  as 


114  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

they  walked  upstairs,  Beresford  judged  that  it  was 
a  dinner-party  of  considerable  proportions. 

"Lord  Drewitt,  Mr.  Richard  Beresford,"  bawled 
Payne,  as  if  determined  that  his  voice  should  beat 
down  the  volume  of  sound  that  seemed  set  on  es- 
caping from  the  room.  Lady  Drewitt  was  stand- 
ing near  the  door.  As  they  entered  she  turned  and 
sailed  towards  them. 

"Are  you  better?"  she  demanded  with  uncom- 
promising directness. 

"Much,  thank  you,"  replied  Drewitt,  with  a  smile. 
"I  sent  out  for  another." 

"Sent  out  for  another  1"  she  looked  at  him  sus- 
piciously. "Payne  said  your  man  telephoned  that 
you  had  a  slight  heart-attack." 

"Ah!  was  that  it?  I  thought  I  had  swallowed  a 
sleeve-link,  the  symptoms  are  so  similar.  By  the 
way,"  he  added,  "I  made  Richard  come  with  me, 
I'm  getting  a  little  concerned  about  his  spending  his 
evenings  alone  in  London." 

Lady  Drewitt  gave  Beresford  a  look  that  told 
him  all  he  had  anticipated;  then,  turning  to  Drewitt, 
she  said,  "I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Crisp; 
Miss  Craven  is  indisposed." 

"It  is  not  for  the  lamb  to  protest,"  he  murmured 
as  he  followed,  leaving  Beresford  to  amuse  him- 
self by  a  contemplation  of  his  aunt's  somewhat 
clumsy  strategy  in  her  selection  of  guests,  most  of 
whom  were  middle-aged  or  elderly. 

A  moment  later  he  felt  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  and 


THE  HEIRESS  INDISPOSED  115 

Drewitt  was  leading  him  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

"Please  remember  that  I  brought  you  as  moral, 
not  as  military  support,  Richard,"  he  said.  "Moral 
support  is  always  in  the  van.  You  are  a  civilian 
now.  You  have  ceased  to  be  a  soldier." 

Lady  Drewitt  was  talking  to  a  little  white-haired 
woman  of  vast  volubility  and  rapid  change  of  expres- 
sion. She  had  hard  eyes,  and  a  skin  that  in  tint  re- 
minded Beresford  of  putty. 

Lady  Drewitt  introduced  Drewitt,  and  added 
Beresford  as  if  he  were  an  afterthought.  She  was 
obviously  annoyed  by  his  presence.  Mrs.  Crisp 
turned  to  Drewitt  and  proceeded  to  deluge  him  with 
short,  jerky  sentences,  her  words  seeming  to  jostle 
each  other  as  they  streamed  from  her  lips.  Some- 
times the  first  letters  of  two  words  would  become 
transposed,  with  rather  startling  results. 

"So  unfortunate,  Lord  Drewitt.  My  niece  has 
a  severe  headache.  Quite  prostrate.  She  stripped 
in  the  treet  in  Piccadilly.  Such  a  dangerous  place 
you  know.  Every  one  was  so  nice  about  it.  A 
clergyman  with  black  spats  and  such  delightful  man- 
ners. Long  ones,  you  know,  right  up  to  the  knee. 
He  was  most  sympathetic.  I  think  it's  a  tooth;  but 
the  doctor  says  it's  an  over-active  brain.  I  want 
her  to  have  it  out.  My  dear  father  always  did. 
He  hadn't  any  when  he  died.  We  buried  him  at 
Brookwood.  Such  a  dreadful  journey.  I  remem- 
ber I  lost  my  handkerchief,  and  I  had  such  a  cold. 
My  dear  mother  followed  him  in  a  year."  Having 


116  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

drenched  her  hearers  with  her  verbal  hose,  Mrs. 
Crisp  smiled,  then  continued,  "You  must  meet  her. 
She  goes  away  to-morrow.  I  want  you  to  come  to 
breakfast.  Mr.  Quelch  is  coming.  He's  so  psy- 
chic. I  love  breakfast-parties."  The  last  few  jets 
were  directed  solely  at  Drewitt. 

At  the  mention  of  the  word  "breakfast,"  Beres- 
ford  glanced  across  at  Drewitt,  who  had  probably 
never  been  out  to  breakfast  in  his  life.  He  usually 
rose  in  time  for  lunch,  provided  it  were  a  late  lunch ; 
yet  without  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash  he  was  telling 
Mrs.  Crisp  that  he  feared  he  had  a  breakfast  en- 
gagement for  the  morrow. 

"Who  with?"  demanded  Lady  Drewitt,  suspi- 
ciously. 

In  a  moment  of  misguided  loyalty  Beresford 
dashed  in  to  the  rescue. 

"With  me,  Aunt  Caroline."  He  wondered  why 
Drewitt  flashed  at  him  a  reproachful  glance. 

"Then  you  come  too,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Crisp,  ac- 
knowledging Beresford's  presence  for  the  first  time. 
"You'll  enjoy  Mr.  Quelch.  He's  so  fond  of  por- 
ridge, so  am  I.  We  have  it  every  morning.  It 
always  reminds  me  of  bag-pipes.  Such  dreadful 
things.  They  play  them  while  you  eat  it  in  Scot- 
land. Or  is  it  haggis?  It  made  me  very  ill  when 
I  was  in  Edinburgh.  Mr.  Quelch  loves  it.  Such 
psychic  qualities."  Mrs.  Crisp  trailed  off  into  stac- 
catoed  superlatives  relative  to  the  merits  and  vir- 
tues of  Mr.  Quelch,  as  if  he  had  been  a  culinary 
chef  d'ceuvre,  at  the  same  time  leaving  in  the  minds 


THE  HEIRESS  INDISPOSED  117 

of  her  hearers  the  impression  that  the  porridge  as 
well  as  Mr.  Quelch  was  possessed  of  psychic  quali- 
ties. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  a  breakfast-party,"  lied  Beres- 
ford  glibly.  "I  have  asked  some  friends  to  meet 
my  cousin,  some  Americans,"  he  added,  thinking  to 
impress  Mrs.  Crisp  by  giving  to  the  engagement  an 
international  flavour. 

"So  wonderful,"  burst  forth  Mrs.  Crisp,  "they 
really  think  they  won  the  war.  Everybody  seems 
to  have  won  the  war,  except  of  course  the  Germans. 
Such  nice  people.  Americans  I  mean.  So  psychic. 
Mr.  Wilson,  too,  I  hear  he  means  to  be  Emperor. 
Mr.  Quelch  likes  Americans.  He  says,  I  forget 
exactly  what  it  was.  It  was  very  clever.  They  live 
on  such  funny  things,  grape-fruit  and  ice-water,  and 
divorce  costs  hardly  anything.  So  nice  for  the 
servants.  I  mean  the  grape-fruit  and  ice-water. 
So  you'll  explain,  Mr.  Berry,  won't  you?" 

Mrs.  Crisp  turned  to  Beresford  with  what  she 
probably  meant  to  be  an  arch  look.  "You  will, 
won't  you?"  To  Drewitt  she  continued,  "I'll  take 
no  denial.  Lola  would  never  forgive  me.  She 
would  be  so  disappointed.  I  hate  disappointing  her. 
This  morning  I  promised  her  soles.  They  hadn't 
any.  So  annoying  of  them.  Do  you  like  soles, 
Lord  Drewitt?" 

"With  me  it  is  a  matter  of  spelling." 

"Oh,  I  see.  I  can't  spell  either.  Isn't  it  strange. 
I  always  spell  lose  with  two  'o's.' ' 


118  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I  invariably  spell  camel  with  one  hump,"  said 
Drewitt  gravely. 

"How  amusing.  I  thought  men  could  always 
spell.  They're  so  interesting,  I  think.  Camels  I 
mean.  I  saw  one  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  or  was  it 
The  Luck  of  the  Navy?" 

"Chu  Chin  Chow,"  suggested  Beresford. 

"Ah!  was  it?  So  psychic  it  seemed.  I  love  cam- 
els. You  know  they  can  go  for  years  without  water. 
So  remarkable.  I  should  like  to  keep  a  camel.  I 
love  pets.  Have  you  ever  kept  anything,  Lord 
Drewitt?" 

"Only  a  taxi  once.  I  kept  it  for  six  hours.  I  for- 
got it  was  there " 

"And  the  men  are  so  rude,"  continued  Mrs. 
Crisp.  "The  other  night  one  said  dreadful  things. 
I  forget  what  they  were.  Most  profane  he  was. 
You  can't  stop  them.  The  men  I  mean,  not  the 
taxis.  But  I'm  told  they're  getting  better.  There 
are  more  of  them  about.  There's  bound  to  be  the 
ping  of  the  swendulum.  But  you  will  come  to  break- 
fast, won't  you?"  Mrs.  Crisp  smiled  a  porcelain 
smile,  whilst  her  hard  little  eyes  glanced  from  one 
to  the  other,  as  if  seeking  a  smouldering  ember  of 
hesitancy  on  which  to  turn  her  verbal  spray. 

"I'm  sure  Richard  will  excuse  his  cousin,"  said 
Lady  Drewitt  with  a  smile ;  but  in  a  tone  that  Beres- 
ford recognised  as  final.  "I  will  call  for  Philip 
myself,"  she  announced. 

"How  good  of  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Crisp.  "I  didn't 
dare  to  expect  it.  Breakfast-parties  are  so  rare. 


THE  HEIRESS  INDISPOSED  119 

They're  wonderful.  I  always  think  we  are  at  our 
best  in  the  morning.  They  say  Mr.  George  Lloyd 
governs  the  country  at  breakfast.  Such  an  appetite 
I'm  told — and  what  charming  manners.  So  tact- 
ful with  the  Labour  Members.  I  always  tell  Lola 
they're  more  important  than  morals.  Manners  I 
mean,  not  the  Labour  Members.  You'll  love  Mr. 
Quelch,  Lady  Drewitt.  He's  so  gifted.  So  psy- 
chic. Don't  forget  half-past  eight.  We  always 
breakfast  early." 

Beresford  looked  at  Lady  Drewitt.  She  cer- 
tainly did  not  inspire  confidence  in  her  power  to  love 
anything  or  anybody  as  she  stood  there,  a  grim  fig- 
ure determined  to  achieve  her  ends.  The  thought 
of  Drewitt  being  at  his  best  at  breakfast  was  amus- 
ing. 

Beresford  found  himself  wondering  what  Lola 
Craven  was  like.  It  would  be  worth  a  fortune,  he 
decided,  to  marry  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Crisp,  no  matter 
how  great  her  attractions.  He  never  remembered 
to  have  met  so  strange  and  bird-like  a  creature.  Her 
round  eyes  were  entirely  devoid  of  expression,  be- 
yond a  glint,  and  her  face  moved  as  if  controlled  by 
steel  springs.  Added  to  this  was  her  unrestrained 
flow  of  words.  Whatever  she  might  be,  no  one 
could  withhold  his  sympathies  from  Lola  Craven 
upon  the  possession  of  such  an  aunt. 

For  the  next  half-hour  he  chatted  with  acquaint- 
ances among  the  guests,  confident  that  Drewitt 
would  get  him  away  as  soon  as  he  decently  could. 
From  time  to  time  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  still 


120  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

engaged  with  Mrs.  Crisp,  she  in  conversation,  he  in 
calling  up  all  his  reserves  of  good-breeding  to  simu- 
late interest.  Presently  he  found  himself  standing 
quite  close  to  him. 

"And  now,"  he  heard  Drewitt  say,  "I  must  take 
Richard  home.  He  is  really  an  invalid,  and  has  to 
be  careful  of  the  night  air.  You  see  he  set  out  to 
get  near  to  Nature;  but  found  her  an  extremely 
chilly  damsel,  and  contracted  pneumonia." 

"You  are  quite  right,  Lord  Drewitt,"  streamed 
Mrs.  Crisp.  "I  had  a  brother  once  who  caught  cold 
after  bronchitis,  although  he  always  wore  goloshes. 
Such  splendid  things.  Americans  call  them  'rub- 
bers.' Always  reminds  me  of  whist.  He  was  gone 
in  a  week.  You  can  never  be  too  careful,  Mr. 
Berry,"  she  added,  turning  to  Beresford. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  Crisp,  I  really  must  take  him 
away,"  and  leaving  Mrs.  Crisp  still  in  full  cry,  they 
went  in  search  of  Lady  Drewitt. 

As  they  made  their  adieux,  Lady  Drewitt  once 
more  stated  her  intention  of  calling  for  Drewitt  on 
the  morrow  at  a  quarter-past  eight.  They  passed 
out  of  the  Belle  Vue  and  turned  down  Piccadilly. 
For  some  time  they  walked  in  silence. 

"Death  with  some  men  is  a  supreme  stroke  of 
diplomacy,"  murmured  Drewitt  at  length,  "with 
others  it  is  an  unsporting  act  of  evasion.  I  have 
known  cases  even  when  it  might  have  been  described 
as  an  indulgence;  but  with  Mr.  Crisp  it  was  un- 
questionably an  act  of  self-preservation." 

"If  the  fair  Lola  insists  on  Auntie  living  with  you, 


THE  HEIRESS  INDISPOSED  121 

Drew,  I'm  afraid  you  are  in  for  a  thin  time,"  said 
Beresford.  "Possibly  she  could  be  fitted  with  si- 
lencers." 

"I'm  wondering,"  said  Drewitt,  disregarding  the 
remark,  "what  I  am  to  say  to  Hoskins?" 

"What  about?" 

"He's  been  a  good  servant,"  continued  Drewitt 
sadly,  "and  if " 

"Oh!  about  to-morrow,"  Beresford  laughed. 

"If  I  were  to  tell  him  suddenly  and  without  proper 
preparation  that  I  intend  to  rise  to-morrow  at  seven, 
it  would  in  all  probability  prove  fatal.  I  am  really 
greatly  concerned  as  to  how  to  break  the  news  to 
him." 

"Why  not  get  up  without  him?"  suggested  Beres- 
ford. 

"Get  up  without  Hoskins  1"  Drewitt  looked  at 
his  cousin  as  if  he  had  suggested  attending  a  levee 
in  a  sweater.  "Get  up  without  Hoskins!"  he  re- 
peated. There  was  pained  reproach  in  his  voice. 

"Well,  anyhow,  you're  in  for  it." 

"Richard,  have  you  ever  seen  a  man  break  down?" 

"Out  there "  began  Beresford  seriously; 

then,  seeing  the  drift  of  Drewitt's  remark,  added, 
"Don't  be  an  ass,  Drew." 

"I  see  you  haven't,  then  we  had  better  say  good- 
night here;"  and  Drewitt  hailed  a  passing  taxi, 
whilst  Beresford  walked  slowly  back  to  the  Ritz- 
Carlton. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PURSUIT  TO  FOLKESTONE 

ON  the  morning  following  the  meeting  with 
Mrs.  Crisp,  Beresford  was  strolling  down 
St.  James's  Street,  still  engaged  upon  the 
everlasting  search,  and  speculating  as  to  what  had 
happened  at  the  breakfast-party  arranged  on  the 
previous  night. 

The  idea  of  Drewitt  and  his  Aunt  Caroline  going 
out  to  breakfast  possessed  an  aspect  of  novelty  and 
humour  that  appealed  to  him.  He  could  see  Drew- 
itt finding  in  that  meal  a  subject  of  complaint  for 
months  to  come.  In  a  way  he  pitied  Hoskins.  He 
could  picture  Drewittr  keeping  his  man  busy  for 
the  rest  of  the  day  in  bringing  fresh  relays  of  coffee, 
and  listening  to  his  opinions  on  the  mental  capacity 
of  those  who  allowed  their  gregarious  instincts  to 
triumph  at  the  beginning  of  the  day.  Drewitt  had 
always  preached  the  doctrine  that  there  should  be 
no  social  intercourse  before  lunch. 

Beresford  paused  at  the  bottom  of  St.  James's 
Street  to  allow  the  stream  of  traffic  to  pass.  Sud- 
denly his  heart  started  pounding  with  almost  suffo- 
cating vigour.  There  in  a  taxi  that  was  swinging 
round  the  curve  was  the  Rain-Girl — alone.  Beside 


122 


THE  PURSUIT  TO  FOLKESTONE 

the  driver  was  some  luggage.  She  was  going  away. 
In  a  flash  he  realised  that  this  was  his  supreme  op- 
portunity. 

With  the  wild  look  of  a  hunted  man,  he  glanced 
about  him.  All  the  taxis  were  full.  He  could  not 
hurl  from  one  of  them  its  occupants,  and  by  threats 
make  the  driver  follow  that  in  which  the  Rain-Girl 
was  seated.  He  could  not  ask  some  one  to  allow 
him  to  enter  their  vehicle,  and  instruct  the  driver  to 
follow  another  taxi.  They  would  think  him  mad. 
There  seemed  nothing  for  it  but  to  follow  on  foot, 
to  run  for  it. 

The  picture  of  a  man  in  a  top  hat  and  morning- 
coat  tearing  down  the  Mall  in  pursuit  of  a  taxi  was 
bound  to  arouse  comment,  he  told  himself;  yet  there 
seemed  nothing  else  to  do.  With  a  wild  dash  he 
got  between  two  vehicles,  his  intention  being  to  cut 
through  St.  James's  Palace  and  thus  save  a  corner. 
No  doubt  the  Rain-Girl  was  making  for  Victoria. 
What  irony  of  fate  that  he  should  be  in  the  one 
spot  in  London  where  a  taxi  was  most  difficult  to 
obtain  1 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  dive  to  the  right,  a  taxi 
came  out  of  the  gates  by  St.  James's  Palace,  bound 
northwards.  It  was  empty.  Dashing  across  to  it 
he  hailed  the  man. 

"Swing  round  and  drive  to  Victoria  like  hell,  and 
I'll  give  you  a  sovereign." 

Beresford  jumped  in  as  the  man  swung  his  vehi- 
cle round,  amidst  a  perfect  deluge  of  curses  from 
a  brother  of  the  wheel,  whose  off  mudguard  he 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

missed  by  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  Beresford  jammed 
his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and,  leaning  out  of 
the  window,  proceeded  to  urge  the  man  to  his  ut- 
most speed. 

"What  about  the  speed-limit,  sir?"  demanded  the 
Jehu  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Damn  the  speed-limit,"  yelled  Beresford,  caus- 
ing the  sentry  pacing  up  and  down  outside  St. 
James's  Palace  to  stop  suddenly  and  stare. 

"Yes,  that's  all  very  well,"  grumbled  the  man. 

"I'll  pay  fines  and  everything,"  said  Beresford, 
"drive  like  hell." 

Round  the  bend  the  man  swung  his  cab  into  the 
middle  of  the  Mall  and  let  her  rip.  Beresford 
changed  from  the  offside  to  the  nearside,  striving  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  Rain-Girl's  taxi.  Apparently 
it  had  disappeared.  Had  she  gone  in  the  other  dk 
rection?  For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  Should  he 
stop  the  man  and  turn  back?  Yet  why  should  she 
be  coming  this  way  if  she  were  not  going  to  Vic- 
toria, or  at  least  in  that  direction. 

He  strained  his  eyes  and  leaned  far  out  of  the 
window  to  see  the  other  vehicles  as  they  swung  round 
by  the  Queen  Victoria  Memorial.  Unconscious  that 
he  was  attracting  to  himself  the  attention,  not  only 
of  the  occupants  of  the  taxis  he  overtook,  but  of  the 
passers-by,  Beresford  continued  to  watch  and  to  de- 
spair. She  had  gone.  Disappeared  into  thin  air. 
iWhat  luck,  what  rotten  luck!  Probably  she  had 
gone  away  for 

Suddenly  he  withdrew  his  head  and  plumped  him- 


THE  PURSUIT  TO  FOLKESTONE        125 

self  down  on  to  the  seat,  and  with  his  stick  nearly 
broke  the  glass  in  front  of  him.  The  man  looked 
round  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  Beresford  motioned 
him  to  ease  up.  There  a  few  yards  in  front  of  him 
was  the  Rain-Girl's  taxi,  which  had  been  obscured 
by  a  large  car. 

When  the  man  had  slowed  down,  Beresford  put 
his  head  out  of  the  window. 

"Follow  that  taxi  with  the  girl  in  it,"  he  said. 

"Right-o,  sir,"  said  the  man  with  a  wink. 

Beresford  leaned  back,  conscious  for  the  first 
time  of  the  strain  of  the  last  few  minutes.  He  felt 
weak  and  giddy,  and  recalled  Tallis'  injunction  to 
avoid  anything  in  the  nature  of  excitement.  Avoid 
the  Rain-Girl!  He  laughed.  At  last  he  was  on 
her  track.  Where  she  went  he  would  go.  He 
watched  her  taxi  as  one  hypnotised. 

As  it  approached  Victoria  Station  he  saw  the 
driver  turn  and  make  an  enquiry,  then  he  swung  out 
to  the  left  and  made  for  the  South-Eastern  Station, 
Beresford's  man  keeping  about  twenty  yards  be- 
hind. As  his  taxi  drew  up,  the  Rain-Girl  was  just 
getting  out  of  hers.  Yes,  there  was  no  room  for 
doubt,  it  was  she.  A  porter  was  hurling  her  luggage 
on  to  a  truck  and  apparently  counselling  haste. 
She  was  late,  obviously. 

Immediately  she  had  turned  to  follow  her  por- 
ter, Beresford  jumped  out  and,  handing  the  taxi- 
man  two  one-pound  notes,  followed  her,  leaving  the 
man  inarticulate. 

Yes,  there  was  undoubtedly  reason  for  haste,  the 


126  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

porter  was  dashing  along,  the  Rain-Girl  keeping  up 
with  him.  As  she  went  she  fumbled  in  her  bag,  ob- 
viously for  her  ticket.  How  well  she  walked,  he 
decided.  She  passed  through  the  barrier,  the  guard 
was  looking  in  her  direction  shouting.  In  his  hand 
was  a  green  flag  ready  to  be  unfurled. 

Making  a  dash  for  the  barrier,  Beresford 
shouted  something  about  it  being  a  matter  of  life  or 
death  that  he  should  catch  that  train.  He  pushed 
a  note  into  the  ticket-collector's  hand,  dashed 
through  and  had  hurled  himself  into  a  first-class 
compartment  just  as  the  train  began  to  move.  With 
a  feeling  of  relief  he  noticed  that  the  compartment 
was  empty. 

As  he  leaned  back  panting,  more  from  excitement 
than  loss  of  breath,  he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  triumph.  His  search  had  not  been  in  vain. 
Somewhere  in  that  train  was  the  Rain-Girl.  He 
would  watch  carefully  at  each  station,  and  where 
she  left  the  train  he  would  leave  it.  What  luck, 
what  astounding  luck!  Would  she  recognise  him? 
What  was  he  to  do  if 

"Where  for,  sir?" 

He  looked  up  suddenly.  A  guard  was  looking 
down  at  him  from  the  door  leading  into  the  cor- 
ridor. 

"Er — er "  he  began,  then  paused.  "I 

haven't  got  a  ticket.  I  only  just  caught  it  as  it  was. 
I  told  the  collector  I  would  pay  on  the  train." 

"Yes,  sir,  where  for?"  asked  the  guard,  bringing 
a  receipt  book  out  of  his  satchel. 


THE  PURSUIT  TO  FOLKESTONE        127 

Where  for!  Where  was  he  for?  Where  on 
earth  was  the  train  going  to?  There  had  been  no 
time  to  enquire.  He  could  not  say  that  he  was 
going  as  far  as  the  Rain-Girl  went,  the  man  would 
in  all  probability  have  him  put  out  at  the  next  sta- 
tion as  a  lunatic.  Suddenly  he  had  an  inspiration. 

"All  the  way,"  he  said  casually. 

"To  Paris,  sir?"  interrogated  the  man. 

To  Paris!  Was  she  going  to  Paris?  What  on 
earth  should  he  do  in  Paris  with  not  so  much  as  a 
tooth-brush  ?  It  was  bad  enough  to  be  travelling  in 
a  continental  train  in  a  top  hat  and  a  morning- 
coat——' 

"Did  you  say  Paris,  sir?"  enquired  the  guard. 

Beresford  nodded.  If  she  got  out  on  the  way 
he  could  do  likewise.  It  was  always  possible  to 
terminate  a  journey  at  an  intermediate  station. 
Suppose  she  were  going  to  stay  with  friends  at  a 
small  French  town,  or  at  some  station  between  Lon- 
don and  Dover,  or  Folkestone,  whichever  way  the. 
train  went.  Sometimes  these  trains  stopped  at  odd. 
stations,  he  told  himself.  What  on  earth  should, 
he  do  on  a  country  platform  in  a  top  hat? 

"Did  you  get  your  luggage  in  the  van  all  right,, 
sir?"  enquired  "the  guard  civilly. 

His  luggage?  Oh,  damn  it!  Why  were  people 
so  infernally  interested  in  the  affairs  of  others? 
Why  should  it  be  assumed  that  because  a  man  was 
going  to  Paris  he  required  to  carry  luggage?  All 
that  was  necessary  could  be  bought  there,  surely? 


128  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

What  on  earth  was  he  to  tell  this  man?     Then  he 
decided  to  risk  telling  the  truth. 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  got  any  luggage,  guard," 
he  said,  looking  up  with  a  smile  and  handing  the 
man  five  one-pound  notes.  "Keep  the  change,"  he 
said  casually* 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  guard,  still  standing 
half  in  the  carriage,  as  if  Beresford's  remark  re- 
quired some  explanation. 

"I  saw  a  friend  coming  by  this  train  and — 
and "  he  hesitated. 

"I  understand,  sir,"  said  the  man  without  the 
flicker  of  a  smile.  "If  I  can  help  you,  sir,"  he  added 
significantly,  "perhaps  you  would  like  to  take  a  walk 
through  the  train  and  see  if  you  can  find  her." 
!  "Her!"  There  was  a  vast  fund  of  humanity  in 
this  guard.  Beresford  looked  at  him. 

"If  you  tell  me  what  she  is  like,  sir,  perhaps  I  can 
find  out  where  she's  going.  I've  got  to  examine  all 
the  tickets." 

"What  a  brainy  idea,"  exclaimed  Beresford,  look- 
ing up  at  the  man  in  admiration.  "She's  dark,  and 
she  was  wearing  a  long,  browny-grey  sort  of  coat, 
you  know." 

The  man  nodded. 

"And "  he  hesitated.     "What  the  devil  did 

she  have  on  her  head?" 

"A  hat,  sir?"  suggested  the  guard. 

Beresford  looked  up  and  laughed.  "I'm  blessed 
if  I  know  what  you  would  call  it,  guard.  It  was  a 
round  thing,  browny-grey  too,  with  some  yellow  on 


THE  PURSUIT  TO  FOLKESTONE   129 

it  like  a  candle-snuffer,  you  know,  the  hat  I  mean." 

Again  the  man  nodded  comprehendingly.  He 
was  a  most  unusual  guard,  Beresford  decided. 

"I'll  be  back  in  about  twenty  minutes,  sir,"  said 
the  man,  and  he  disappeared. 

Beresford  lighted  a  cigarette  and,  putting  his  hat 
and  stick  on  the  rack,  leaned  back  and  smoked  con- 
tentedly. This  was  indeed  a  day  of  happenings. 
Not  only  had  he  found  the  Rain-Girl;  but  he  had 
stumbled  across  an  official  who  clearly  ought  to  have 
been  in  the  diplomatic  service.  The  Foreign  Office 
was  notoriously  lacking  in  diplomatists.  Tact  was 
as  little  likely  to  be  found  there  as  in  a  nagging  wife; 
yet  here  was  a  man,  an  ordinary  guard  on  the  South- 
Eastern  and  Chatham  Railway,  who  combined  the 
discretion  of  a  Lord  Chesterfield  with  the  tact  of  a 
rising  politician.  It  promised  to  be  a  wonderful 
day. 

Presently  the  guard  returned  and,  with  perfect 
composure  of  feature,  informed  Beresford  that  there 
were  two  ladies  answering  to  his  description,  one 
was  bound  for  Folkestone,  and  the  man  rather 
thought  that  this  must  be  the  one,  and  the  other  for 
Boulogne. 

"So  I  had  better  change  your  ticket,  sir?"  he  sug- 
gested. 

This  man  was  indeed  a  paragon,  not  only  of  dis* 
cretion,  but  of  economy.  Beresford  handed  him 
the  slip. 

"Make  it  out  to  the  station  I  get  out  at,"  he  said, 
"and  keep  the  difference  for  yourself." 


130  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  guard  gratefully. 
"And  now,  would  you  like  to  see  the  ladies?"  His 
tone  was  that  of  a  landlady  inquiring  if  a  potential 
lodger  would  like  to  see  the  rooms. 

"See  them!"  repeated  Beresford  dully.  Then  he 
added  quickly,  "of  course;  yes,  guard;  but — 
but " 

"I'll  point  out  the  compartments,  sir.  I  don't 
think  you  need  be  seen,"  he  remarked,  anticipating 
Beresford's  objection. 

"Right!"  he  said  as  he  rose  and  followed  the 
guard  along  the  corridor. 

Presently  he  paused  to  let  Beresford  come  up  with 
him.  "One  of  them's  in  the  third  compartment  of 
the  next  carriage  at  the  further  window,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

Beresford  nodded,  conscious  that  his  heart  was 
again  pounding  like  a  hammer. 

"It's  the  Folkestone  lady,  sir,"  added  the  guard. 

Again  Beresford  nodded  and  proceeded  along 
the  corridor.  When  he  arrived  at  the  third  com- 
partment he  was  almost  too  nervous  to  look  in.  A 
glance  sufficed  to  show  him  that  it  was,  indeed,  the 
Rain-Girl  sitting  at  the  further  corner,  gazing  out 
at  the  bricks-and-mortar  that  was  now  giving  place 
to  green  fields. 

Beresford  nodded  to  the  guard  to  indicate  that 
the  search  need  not  be  proceeded  with.  The  man 
indicated  a  compartment  of  the  same  carriage  in 
which  the  Rain-Girl  sat. 


THE  PURSUIT  TO  FOLKESTONE       131 

"Perhaps  you'd  like  to  sit  here,  sir,"  he  said. 
"I'll  fetch  your  hat  and  stick." 

Until  that  moment  Beresford  was  unconscious  of 
having  left  them  behind  him;  but  then  there  was  no 
need  to  remember  anything  with  so  able  a  hench- 
man. 

Once  more  he  threw  himself  down  into  a  corner-' 
seat,  and,  when  the  guard  had  carefully,  almost  rev 
erently,  placed  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  rack  above 
him,  Beresford  found  himself  faced  with  the  prob- 
lem of  what  he  was  to  do  on  arriving  at  Folkestone. 
Obviously  the  first  thing  was  to  secure  a  vehicle, 
preferably  a  taxi,  and  instruct  the  driver  to  follow 
the  Rain-Girl.  Once  he  had  discovered  where  she 
was  going,  he  could  decide  upon  his  course  of  action. 

At  Folkestone  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  leave  the 
train.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  securing  a  taxi.  His 
request  for  the  hood  to  be  put  up  seemed  likely  to 
produce  trouble,  the  man  was  obviously  of  the  opin- 
ion that  his  fare  was  a  lunatic;  but  the  promise  of 
double  fare  mollified  the  Jehu's  grumblings,  and 
achieved  Beresford's  object.  Out  of  sight  he  sat 
and  watched.  Presently  the  Rain-Girl  emerged, 
followed  by  a  porter.  She,  too,  chose  a  taxi,  which 
a  minute  later  drew  out,  and  Beresford  instructed 
his  man  to  follow  it. 

At  last  he  felt  that  he  had  achieved  his  object. 
Nothing  short  of  some  unforeseen  accident  could 
now  intervene.  He  hoped  the  tyres  of  his  vehicle 
were  all  right,  and  that  the  man  had  an  ample  sup- 
ply of  petrol.  As  the  taxi  turned  on  to  the  Leas, 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Beresford  decided  that  the  Rain-Girl  was  going  to 
the  Imperial.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  no- 
where else  for  a  taxi  taking  that  direction  to  go. 
His  own  driver,  taking  his  instructions  literally,  drew 
up  within  half  a  yard  of  the  Rain-Girl's  vehicle. 
Beresford  cursed  him  under  his  breath,  and  strove 
to  squeeze  himself  out  of  sight.  The  man  evidently 
appreciated  the  situation,  as  he  showed  no  surprise 
at  Beresford's  not  alighting. 

Having  opened  the  door  of  the  Rain-Girl's  taxi 
and  handed  her  out,  the  hall-porter  lifted  down  her 
luggage  and  placed  it  on  the  ground  beside  him. 
He  then  came  to  Beresford's  vehicle  and  was  about 
to  open  the  door  when  Beresford  leaned  forward. 

"Can  I  have  a  room?"  he  enquired. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  think  so,  if  you'll  enquire  at  the  of- 
fice." 

"I  want  you  to  enquire  for  me.  Perhaps  you'll 
ask  the  clerk  to  come  and  speak  to  me,"  and  he 
handed  the  man  a  half  crown. 

"Certainly,  sir,"  and  the  man  ran  up  the  steps, 
reappearing  a  minute  later  followed  by  a  dark  lit- 
tle man,  perfect  in  dress  and  deportment. 

Beresford  explained  his  requirements. 

Yes,  everything  could  be  arranged  to  monsieur's 
entire  satisfaction.  When  would  monsieur  want 
the  room?  That  night?  Certainly,  and  would  he 
take  dinner?  He  would.  A  deposit?  It  was  not 
necessary.  Monsieur  insisted?  The  man  shrugged 
his  shoulders  to  imply  that  he  took  the  two  one- 
pound  notes  merely  as  a  concession  to  monsieur; 


THE  PURSUIT;  TO  FOLKESTONE 

as  for  himself,  well "Back  to  the  station? 

Oui,  monsieur,"  and  with  a  word  to  the  driver  the 
taxi  swung  out  from  the  drive,  and  Beresford  once 
more  had  cause  to  congratulate  himself  upon  his 
luck. 

Everything  seemed  to  come  quite  naturally  to 
him  now.  He  would  return  to  London  for  some 
suitable  clothes,  be  back  in  Folkestone  that  evening, 
and  then •. 


CHAPTER  X 

LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE 

WHILST  Beresford  was  on  the  way  to 
Folkestone  with  such  expedition  as  the 
South-Eastern  and  Chatham  Railway 
could  muster,  Lady  Drewitt  was  driving  back  to 
Curzon  Street  with  Lord  Drewitt  seated  beside  her. 
On  his  face  was  the  look  of  deep  depression  of  a 
man  who  has  been  torn  from  his  bed  some  six  hours 
before  his  normal  hour  for  rising.  Arrived  at  Cur- 
zon Street,  Lady  Drewitt  marched  straight  to  the 
morning-room  and  seated  herself  in  her  customary 
chair,  whilst  her  nephew  wearily  dropped  his  un- 
happy body  upon  one  opposite. 

"Well  I"  She  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  with 
an  air  of  grim  expectancy. 

"My  dear  aunt,"  he  said  wearily;  "it  can  never 
be  well  with  a  man  who  has  two  thousand  a  year 
and  expensive  tastes." 

"If  you  depended  upon  yourself,  you  would  have 
only  your  expensive  tastes  without  the  two  thousand 
a  year,"  was  the  retort. 

Drewitt  glanced  at  her  with  interest. 

"You  are  becoming  almost  epigrammatical,"  he 
said  with  a  lazy  smile,  the  first  that  had  broken 
through  his  mask  of  suffering  that  morning. 

134 


LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE        135 

"Welll"  repeated  Lady  Drewitt. 

"You  drag  a  man  from  his  early  and  innocent 
slumbers  long  before  the  streets  are  fit  to  receive 
him,  precipitate  him  into  taking  an  unaccustomed 
meal,  hurl  at  him  an  heiress  and  a  man  of  voracious 
appetite,  dubious  linen  and  psychic  proclivities,  and 
then  you  say,  'Well.' '  Drewitt  shuddered. 

"I  am  quite  prepared  to  wait,"  announced  Lady 
Drewitt  with  resignation. 

"So  am  I,  so  why  precipitate  me  into  breakfast- 
parties  and  marriage,"  protested  Drewitt.  "Deacon 
Quelch,  what  a  horrible  name!"  he  murmured.  "It 
sounds  like  treading  on  an  egg." 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  think  of  Lola  Cra- 
ven?" Lady  Drewitt  was  not  to  be  diverted  from 
her  object. 

"I  never  think  of  any  women  I  have  not  met  at 
least  half  a  dozen  times,  and  most  women  bore  me 
at  the  third  encounter.  May  I  smoke  ?"  he  enquired 
plaintively. 

"No,  you  may  not,"  was  the  uncompromising 
reply. 

Drewitt  smiled  a  smile  of  weary  resignation. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  seriously,"  said  Lady 
Drewitt,  with  a  slight  indrawing  of  her  lips. 

"My  dear  aunt,  you  are  always  speaking  to  me 
seriously,"  replied  Drewitt  easily.  "You  do  noth- 
ing else,  and  your  unvarying  theme  is  marriage.  It 
gets  a  little  monotonous,  I  confess,"  he  added  with 
a  sigh. 


136  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I  have  my  duty  to  consider,"  announced  Lady 
Drewitt.  "You  must  marry." 

"Marriage,  my  dear  aunt,  is  like  the  tint  of  one's 
pyjamas,  an  intensely  personal  affair.  One  person's 
happiness  is  achieved  by  spots,  another's  by  a  mono- 
tone, suggestive  of  dungaree  overalls;  personally 
my  taste  runs  to  stripes  of  delicate  tints.  You,  on 
your  part,  may  prefer " 

"Don't  be  indelicate,  Drewitt.  I  was  talking 
about  Miss  Craven,  not — not  night-wear.  There  is 
the  title " 

"There  is,  indeed,"  agreed  Drewitt  mournfully. 
"I  am  never  permitted  to  forget  it.  If  I  go  to  a 
hotel  it  means  a  hundred  per  cent,  on  the  bill,  and 
if  I  dine  at  a  restaurant,  it  means  half-a-crown  in- 
stead of  a  shilling  to  the  man  who  takes  my  hat, 
with  at  least  five  shillings  to  the  waiter.  No  won- 
der democracy  is  abroad." 

"You  cannot  complain  of  her  appearance,"  an- 
nounced Lady  Drewitt. 

"I  never  have,"  was  the  reply.  "Democracy  is 
the  only  hope  of  the  House  of  Lords.  It " 

"I  was  referring  to  Miss  Craven,"  said  Lady 
Drewitt  severely.  "Are  you  going  to  marry  her?" 

"Was  I  expected  to  propose  at  breakfast?"  he 
asked  innocently. 

"Do  you  like  her?"  Lady  Drewitt  had  a  habit 
of  ignoring  her  nephew's  flippancy.  At  first  she  had 
endeavoured  to  combat  it;  but  the  discovery  that 
she  was  invariably  discomfited  had  caused  her  to 
change  her  tactics. 


LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE        137 

"Money  inverts  the  natural  order  of  things.  It 
is  the  woman  who  selects,  just  as  with  the  birds  of 
the  air,"  he  sighed  dolefully;  "besides,  Miss  Craven, 
seemed  far  more  interested  in  Mr.  Quelch  than  in 
me.  You  see  I  am  not  psychic,  merely  rheumatic, 
probably  the  legacy  of  the  early  Drewitts,  who  glo- 
ried and  drank  deep  of  their  own  productions." 

"Interested  in  that  man!"  Lady  Drewitt  seemedi 
to  sit  a  little  more  upright  in  her  chair.  There  was 
surprise  in  her  tone. 

"That  was  the  impression  I  received." 

For  a  few  minutes  Lady  Drewitt  seemed  to  pon- 
der. 

"It's  your  air  of  indifference,"  she  announced  at 
length. 

"My  dear  aunt,  can  you  imagine  me  making  love? 
Can  you  see  me  spreading  my  handkerchief  upon 
the  carpet,  going  down  on  one  knee,  striking  an  at- 
titude, and  at  the  same  time  the  left  portion  of  my 
upper  anatomy,  and  declaring  that  life  holds  noth- 
ing for  me  if  the  beloved  does  not  vouchsafe  to  me 
the  honey  of  her  lips  and  the  balance  at  her  bank?" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Drewitt." 

"No,  it's  not  that,"  said  Drewitt,  "the  fault  lies 
elsewhere.  I'm  afraid  I  could  never  seriously  con- 
template marrying  Miss  Craven  for  her  money,"  he 
continued  gravely.  "She  has  personality  and 
charm;  they  always  command  my  respect." 

"Then  marry  her  for  her  personality  and  charm," 
said  Lady  Drewitt  sarcastically. 

"There  is  of  course  that,"  he  said  rising;  "but 


138  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

somehow  I  think  that  when  Lola  Craven  marries,  it 
will  be  for  love." 

"Fiddlesticks,"  snapped  Lady  Drewitt. 

"I  quite  agree,  my  dear  aunt,  the  terms  are 
synonymous;  but  young  women  are  extremely  self- 
willed  in  these  matters.  I'm  inclined  to  attribute  it 
to  beauty-competitions  and  insufficient  clothing." 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  demanded 
Lady  Drewitt,  rising  with  a  rustle  of  silk  and  a  ruf- 
fled temper. 

"I  scarcely  know,"  was  the  reply.  "You  see, 
aunt,"  this  with  an  engaging  smile,  "you  have  a  ten- 
dency to  be  precipitate.  I  am  not  Dante,  nor  is  Miss 
Craven  Beatrice,"  and  with  this  Drewitt  took  his  de- 
parture, leaving  Lady  Drewitt  puzzled  as  to  his 
meaning. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  seated  in  his  favourite 
chair,  smoking  a  cigarette.  When  Lord  Drewitt 
found  that  the  burden  of  life  oppressed  him,  he  in- 
variably returned  to  his  flat  and  ordered  Hoskins  to 
make  coffee. 

"Hoskins,"  he  remarked,  as  his  man  placed  the 
coffee  before  him,  "I  often  wonder  why  you  don't 
demand  half  my  income." 

"Half  your  income,  my  lord!"  exclaimed  Hoskins, 
in  surprise,  looking  too  cherubic  and  beneficent  to 
demand  anything.  He  was  a  round-faced,  fresh- 
coloured,  chubby  little  man,  with  the  expression  of 
a  happy  boy. 

"Because  you  know  that  I  should  have  to  give  it 
to  you.  Without  your  coffee,  Hoskins,  I  could 


LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE        139 

never  continue  the  unequal  struggle  with  existence." 

"I'm  quite  satisfied,  my  lord,  thank  you,"  said 
Hoskins,  with  customary  literalness. 

Lord  Drewitt  replaced  his  cup  and,  turning,  sur- 
veyed his  servant  with  deliberation. 

"With  everything,  Hoskins?"  he  enquired  in- 
credulously. 

"Yes,  my  lord,  I  think  so." 

"How  weird,"  exclaimed  Lord  Drewitt.  "You 
had  better  join  a  trade-union  as  a  corrective.  It's 
not  natural.  It's  infernally  unnatural,  and  it  may 

lead    to — to    anything.     From    wife-murder    to— 
.  » 

"But  I'm  not  married,  my  lord,"  said  Hoskins 
hurriedly. 

"I  didn't  say  whose  wife,"  said  Lord  Drewitt  ir- 
ritably. "God  knows  there  are  enough  wives 
about." 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Suppose  I  were  to  get  married,"  Lord  Drewitt 
helped  himself  to  another  cigarette,  which  he  lighted 
with  great  deliberation. 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Don't  say  'Yes,  my  lord'  in  that  colourless  sort 
of  voice,  man,  as  if  you  didn't  care." 

"I  beg  pardon,  my  lord,"  said  Hoskins  contritely. 

"Suppose  I  were  to  get  married,  what  would  you 
do?"  Lord  Drewitt  leaned  back  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  has  given  utterance  to  the  worst  that  can 
befall  him. 

"If  your  lordship  had  no  further  need  for  my 


140  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

services,"   he   began,    "I    suppose    I    should   have 

"Need  for  your  services,  I  should  want  coffee 
every  fifteen  minutes  of  the  day  and  night.  No,  by 
Jove!  like  the  Emperor  Charles  and  his  chickens, 
I'd  have  it  prepared  every  five  minutes.  You  re- 
gard marriage  far  too  lightly,  Hoskins." 

"I  hope  not,  my  lord,"  this  with  something  ap- 
proaching feeling  in  his  voice. 

"That's  better,  that  sounds  more  human.  Now, 
suppose  there  were  a  Lady  Drewitt  in  this  flat.  She 
would  be  sure  to  want  you  to  do  her  hair  or  some- 
thing at  the  very  moment  I  required  you." 

"Do  her  hair,  my  lord!"  he  exclaimed  anxiously. 

"Yes,  thin  ginger  hair,  it  would  be,  or  else  mani- 
cure her  spatulated  finger  nails,  or  lace  her  stays, 
or  clean  her  shoes.  You  don't  seem  to  understand. 
There's  a  terrible  destiny  brooding  over  this  flat." 

Instinctively  Hoskins  looked  up  at  the  ceiling. 

"You  and  I  rub  along  very  well  together,  Hos- 
kins, thanks  to  your  coffee  and  my  equable  temper; 
but  a  Lady  Drewitt  would  play  the  very  devil  with 
us.  Don't  you  realise  that?" 

"Now  that  you  come  to  mention  it,  my  lord,  I'm 
afraid  that  it  might  be — might  be  a  little  difficult." 

"A  little  difficult,"  Lord  Drewitt  sighed.  "It's 
a  deadly  menace.  Now  I  want  you  to  do  something 
for  me." 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"If  at  any  time  you  hear  that  I  have  become  en- 
gaged to  be  married,"  Lord  Drewitt  spoke  slowly 


LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE        141 

and  impressively,  "I  want  you  to  poison  my  coffee." 

"Poison  your  coffee,  my  lord!"  he  cried,  startled 
out  of  his  habitual  calm. 

"Not  at  once,"  Lord  Drewitt  hastened  to  add. 
"Not  immediately  you  hear  the  news,  because  bet- 
ter councils  might  subsequently  prevail;  but  say  on 
the  wedding-morning,  just  as  you  are  handing  me  my 
lavender  trousers.  It  would  be  so  effective  in  the 
newspapers.  'The  third  Lord  Drewitt  dies  just  as 
he  is  about  to  assume  his  wedding-trousers.1  'As- 
sume' would  sound  better  than  'put  on.'  One  puts 
on  ordinary  bags,  Hoskins;  but  one  'assumes'  wed- 
ding-garments." 

"But  lavender  trousers  are  not — not  worn  now, 
my  lord." 

Lord  Drewitt  looked  up  reproachfully. 

"Lavender  trousers  are  always  worn.  They  are 
Victorian,  and  appear  in  every  novel  and  play  that 
ever  was  written,  or  ever  will  be  written.  Good 
heavens!  how  are  you  to  know  that  it's  a  man's 
wedding-day  unless  he  indicates  it  by  his  extremities? 
No  really  nice  girl  would  feel  that  she  was  married 
without  lavender  trousers.  They  are  conventional, 
imperative,  de  rigueur.  Women  have  protested 
against  various  parts  of  the  marriage  service;  but 
never  against  lavender  trousers.  I'm  quite  con- 
vinced that  this  convention  is  responsible  for  the  lim- 
ited number  of  full-dress  Scottish  marriages.  There 
is  not  the  same  glamour  about  lavender  kilts.  .Why, 
I  cannot  conceive." 

Lord  Drewitt  handed  his  cup  to  Hoskins. 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"You  promise  to  poison  me  then,"  he  said,  look- 
ing up  appealingly,  "you  promise  on — on  your  hope 
of  an  allotment?" 

"I'll  think  it  over,  my  lord." 

"A  broken  reed,"  cried  Lord  Drewitt,  as  he  sank 
back  in  his  chair.  "Just  like  the  rest,  you  are  a 
broken  reed."  He  paused  to  light  a  cigarette. 
"Have  you  ever  thought  of  marriage,  Hoskins?" 
he  inquired. 

"No,  my  lord,"  was  the  hesitating  reply,  "that  is, 
not  seriously." 

"Ah !  you  are  the  child  of  your  generation.  Your 
tendency  is  to  think  lightly  of  serious  things.  Do 
you  know  the  meaning  of  love,  honour  and  obey?" 

"I— er— think " 

"Showing  conclusively  that  you  don't,"  continued 
Lord  Drewitt.  "A  wife  loves  her  freedom;  her 
husband  honours  her  cheques;  and  she  obeys  the  dic- 
tates of  fashion.  Hoskins,  I  warn  you  against  mar- 
rying." 

"Thank  you,  my  lord." 

Lord  Drewitt  looked  at  him  sharply;  but  his 
cherubic  expression  was  devoid  of  any  suggestion 
of  guile. 

"There  is  no  necessity  for  you  to  marry,"  Lord 
Drewitt  continued.  "There  is  no  title,  the  world 
will  go  round  just  as  well  without  any  little  Hos- 
kinses,  and  you  have  enough  for  your  immediate 
needs." 

"Thanks  to  you,  my  lord,  I  have,"  he  said  grate- 
fully. 


LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE 

"Then  avoid  women,  at  least  avoid  marrying 
them,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought. 

Hoskins  looked  uncomfortable  and  fidgeted  with 
his  feet. 

"I  recognise  the  signs,  Hoskins.  You  are  keep- 
ing company  with  some  young  female.  Now,  don't 
deny  it." 

He  did  not  deny  it;  but  his  fresh-coloured  face 
took  on  a  deeper  hue. 

"I  can  see,"  remarked  Lord  Drewitt  with  a  sigh, 
"that  my  coffee  is  threatened  from  two  different 
angles:  your  weakness  about  women,  and  Lady 
Drewitt's  determination  about  the  title.  Tell  me 
about  it,  Hoskins.  I  can  bear  it,"  he  said  wearily. 

"It  was  only  in  case — in  case Well,  my 

lord,  you  have  so  often  talked  about  getting  mar- 
ried that  I  thought " 

Drewitt  looked  at  him  pityingly.  "So  that  if  I 
do  a  thing  that  all  the  great  minds  of  the  world  are 
agreed  is  damn  silly,  you  must  go  and  do  the  same 
thing." 

"Well,  my  lord,  it  would  make — it  would  make  a 
considerable  difference,"  pleaded  Hoskins. 

"It  would,"  agreed  Lord  Drewitt,  "a  consider- 
able difference.  Now,  leave  me.  I'm  not  at  home 
to  anybody.  No,  I  shall  not  require  lunch.  Say 
that  I  am  in  a  mood  of  Socratic  contemplation." 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  said  the  man  obediently  as  he 
left  the  room. 

When  some  hours  later  Beresford  entered,  Drew- 


144  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

itt  was  still  seated  in  his  chair,  idly  turning  the  leaves 
of  a  book. 

"Behold,  my  dear  Richard,"  he  said,  gazing  up 
lazily,  "the  two  most  unfortunate  men  in  London. 
You  faced  by  poverty,  I  by  marriage.  The  great 
Negative  and  Affirmative  of  contemporary  exist- 


ence." 


Beresford  dropped  into  a  chair  and  helped  him- 
self to  a  cigarette  from  the  box  on  the  table,  which 
he  proceeded  to  light. 

"I'm  just  off  to  Folkestone,"  he  said  casually,  as 
he  blew  out  the  match  and  placed  it  on  the  ash-tray 
beside  him. 

Drewitt  screwed  his  glass  into  his  eye,  and  exam- 
ined his  cousin's  morning  clothes  and  silk  hat  with 
deliberate  intentness. 

"Sartorial  originality,  Richard,  is  bound  to  win 
in  the  end,"  he  remarked.  "I  would  suggest  the 
addition  of  dust-coat  and  race-glasses." 

Beresford  laughed.  "Oh,"  he  said  casually,  "of 
course,  I  shall  run  in  and  change  first." 

"It  must  be  delightful  to  be  a  creature  of  im- 
pulse," said  Drewitt;  "and  how  did  you  find  out 
that  she  was  staying  at  Folkestone?" 

Beresford  stared  at  him  blankly.  "Who?"  he 
cried. 

"What  is  the  present  state  of  your  finances,  Rich- 
ard?" enquired  Drewitt,  ignoring  the  question. 

"Oh,  about  a  hundred  pounds." 

Drewitt  nodded  meditatively. 

"I   should  propose   whilst   you   still  have   some 


LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE        145 

worldly  goods  with  which  to  endow  her,"  he  re- 
marked casually. 

"You  are  almost  as  bad  as  Aunt  Caroline,"  said 
Beresford.  "You're  always  thinking  of  the  mor- 
row. For  my  part  I'm  going  to  have  a  good  time 

so  long  as  the  funds  last,  and  after  that "  he 

shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It's  always  a  mistake  to  live  to  the  extent  of  our 
resources,"  remarked  Drewitt  casually. 

"I've  never  regarded  you  as  an  economist." 

"That,  my  dear  Richard,  is  because  you  always 
take  everything  so  literally.  To  you  economy 
means  the  saving  of  money." 

"And  to  you?" 

"It  might  mean  anything,  from  early  morning  tea 
to  treasure  in  heaven." 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  driving  at?" 

"If  a  man  takes  everything  the  world  has  to 
offer,"  continued  Drewitt  evenly,  "he  will  sooner  or 
later  find  himself  morally  bankrupt,  with  nothing 
to  look  forward  to  as  a  comfort  for  his  old  age. 
Now  I  have  reserved  two  things  for  my  euthanasia, 
early  morning  tea  and  marriage." 

"Marriage?"  exclaimed  Beresford. 

"I  was  about  to  add,  Richard,  when  you  rudely 
interrupted  me,  thus  I  have  before  me  a  comfort 
and  an  experience.  I  have  forgone  early  morning 
tea  all  my  life,  taking  coffee  instead,  which  I  prefer. 
I  would  have  done  the  same  with  turtle  soup,  only  I 
thought  of  it  too  late;  personally  I  regard  turtle 
soup  as  much  over-rated." 


146  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"And  marriage?"  queried  Beresford. 

"Most  men  marry  for  a  woman  to  live  with,  I 
shall  marry  for  a  woman  to  die  with.  That  re- 
minds me,  this  morning  I  met  Lola  Craven." 

"I  wanted  to  know  how  you  got  on." 

"You  come  then  to  gloat  over  a  fellow-creature's 
misery,"  said  Drewitt  reproachfully. 

Beresford  laughed,  he  was  in  a  mood  to  laugh  at 
anything. 

"To  tear  a  man  from  his  natural  environment, 
Richard,  shows  both  brutality  and  a  sad  lack  of  half- 
tones. I  am  at  my  best  when  taking  coffee  from 
the  hand  of  the  admirable  Hoskins;  but  to  tear  me 
from  my  proper  setting  six  hours  before  what  our 
cousins  would  call  'the  scheduled  time,'  and  plunge 
me  into  the  unaccustomed  experience  of  breakfast 
is  an  outrage,  nothing  less." 

"Poor  old  Drew,"  laughed  Beresford. 

"Add  to  it  Mr.  Deacon  Quelch,  and  you  reach  a 
degree  of  frightfulness,  Richard,  that  would  terrify 
the  most  hardened  Hun.  I  wonder  why  I  was  given 
Aunt  Caroline?"  he  mused. 

"What  was  she  like?"  enquired  Beresford. 

"The  same  as  always,  wise  and  worldly." 

"I  mean  the  girl." 

"Lola  Craven,"  said  Drewitt  deliberately,  "is  a 
girl  that  no  man  with  any  self-respect  would  ever 
marry  for  her  money." 

"Is  she ?"  began  Beresford. 

"Freckles,  physical  inequalities  and  general 
lumpiness,"  continued  Drewitt,  ignoring  the  half- 


LORD  DREWITT  ON  MARRIAGE        147 

uttered  question,  "a  man  may  marry  because  of  what 
is  behind  them;  but  not  a  girl  like  Lola  Craven. 
You  must  meet  her,  Richard,  also  Mr.  Deacon 
Quelch.  He  is  unique,  from  the  dubiety  of  his  linen 
to  the  voracity  of  his  appetite." 

"I  must  push  off,"  said  Beresford,  rising.  "By 
the  way,  don't  tell  Aunt  Caroline  my  address." 

"Better  not  give  it  to  me,"  said  Drewltt  lazily, 
extending  a  hand.  "But  knowing  your  ingenuous 
character  as  I  do,  Richard,  I  assume  that  it  will  be 
the  most  expensive  hotel  in  the  place." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   MEETING   WITH   THE    RAIN-GIRL 


AS  Beresford  entered  the  dining-room  of  the 
Imperial  at  Folkestone,  he  was  conscious 
that  for  him  the  whole  world  had  changed. 
To-night  he  would  meet  the  Rain-Girl  again.  His 
heart  was  hammering  against  his  ribs,  his  throat 
seemed  to  contract  and  his  muscles  relax.  There 
was  a  curious  buzzing  in  his  ears.  Did  people  feel 
like  that  when  they  were  about  to  faint?  What  a 
sensation  it  would  create  if  he  were  suddenly  to  col- 
lapse. Tallis  had  warned  him  against  excitement. 

The  approach  of  the  maitre  d' hot  el  steadied  him 
a  little.  Beresford  murmured  his  name  and  was  led 
to  a  small  table  laid  for  one — he  had  stipulated  for 
a  table  to  himself.  With  a  supreme  effort  he  took 
himself  in  hand  and  looked  round  the  room.  Heav- 
ens! what  luck.  There  she  was  sitting  at  the  next 
table,  alone.  He  was  thankful  that  her  back  was 
towards  him. 

He  ordered  a  cocktail  to  steady  his  nerves,  con- 
scious that  his  hands  were  trembling  with  excitement. 
He  noticed  that  the  other  diners  had  almost  finished 

148 


THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL    149 

their  meal.  The  train  had  been  late,  and  he  had 
taken  his  time  to  dress.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock. 

He  wished  the  buzzing  in  his  ears  would  stop,  and 
that  his  heart  would  not  behave  quite  so  ridiculously. 
That  bout  of  pneumonia  had  obviously  taken  it  out 
of  him.  Would  the  cocktail  never  come? 

With  thankfulness  he  saw  the  waiter  approach- 
ing. Suddenly  the  man  started  to  whirl  round, 
three  or  four  tables  seemed  to  join  in.  Had  the 
lights  gone  mad,  the  buzzing  in  his  ears,  the 

Beresford  opened  his  eyes  wearily  and  looked 
about  him.  "The  Rain-Girl,"  he  murmured  and, 
closing  them  again,  he  sighed  his  content. 

"He's  delirious,  poor  fellow,"  some  one  mur- 
mured. 

"Shall  I  have  him  taken  to  his  room,  madam?" 
enquired  the  maitre  d'hotel. 

"No,"  said  the  Rain-Girl  decisively.  "Let  him 
remain  here,  and  ask  the  others  to  go  to  their 
places." 

Reluctantly  the  crowd  of  diners  retreated  to  the 
background.  Some  returned  to  their  tables,  others, 
too  curious  to  be  denied,  stood  watching  Beresford's 
recumbent  form  as  he  lay  on  the  dining-room  floor, 
his  head  pillowed  on  a  hassock,  the  Rain-Girl  kneel- 
ing beside  him. 

Presently  he  opened  his  eyes  again  and  smiled 
up  at  her.  She  returned  the  smile. 

"What  have  they  been  doing?"  he  asked  faintly, 


T50  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

as  he  caught  sight  of  the  ends  of  his  tie,  which  had 
been  undone. 

"You  fainted,"  said  the  girl  gently.  "Now  lie 
quite  still  and  you'll  feel  better  presently." 

"I  remember,"  he  said,  "I " 

"You  mustn't  talk,"  she  said  with  a  business-like 
air  of  authority. 

"I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  minute,"  he  said.  "Tallis 
said  I  mustn't  get  excited.  You  know,  I  got  pneu- 
monia that  day  and — and  I  was  ill  for  a  long  time. 
That  is  why  I  didn't  turn  up  to  breakfast,"  and  his 
voice  trailed  off  faintly. 

"Will  you  please  stand  back  there?"  he  heard  the 
Rain-Girl  say  to  several  people  who  had  ap- 
proached; then  as  he  opened  his  eyes  again  she  bent 
down  and  whispered,  "Will  you  tell  me  your  name? 
It's — it's  a  little  awkward." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  he  said  quizzically.  "Beresford, 
Richard  Beresford." 

She  nodded.  "And  now,"  she  said,  "I  think  you 
might  have  a  little  of  this  brandy,"  and  with  that  she 
lifted  a  glass  to  his  lips. 

He  drank  and  a  few  seconds  later,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"I'm — I'm  most  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  looking 
from  the  girl  to  a  little  group  of  guests  a  few  yards 
away. 

"You  had  better  not  talk,"  she  said  as  she  beck- 
oned to  two  of  the  waiters.  "Lift  Mr.  Beresford 
on  to  his  chair,"  she  said;  then  she  added,  turning 


THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL    151 

to  him,  "What  a  strange  meeting.  I  had  no  idea 
you  were  staying  here." 

Several  of  the  other  guests  now  approached. 

"I  only  arrived  to-night,"  he  said,  quick  to  grasp 
her  meaning.  "I'm  just  getting  over  pneumonia," 
he  added  for  the  benefit  of  the  other  guests. 
"When  did  you  come?" 

He  was  rapidly  regaining  control  of  his  faculties. 

"This  morning,"  she  replied. 

It  was  obvious  that  the  little  group  of  guests  and 
waiters  were  drinking  in  this  short  conversation, 
quite  unconscious  that  it  was  for  their  especial 
benefit. 

"And  now,"  said  the  girl,  "I  should  advise  you 
to  go  to  bed.  I  will  order  something  to  be  sent  to 
your  room." 

"But "  began  Beresford  weakly. 

"When  the  nurse  commands  obedience  is  best," 
s,he  smiled. 

With  murmured  thanks  Beresford  rose  and,  as- 
sisted by  the  mditre  d'hotel,  walked  slowly  from  the 
dining-room  out  into  the  vestibule,  where  several 
groups  of  guests  were  standing  discussing  the  inci- 
dent. 

That  night  he  spent  in  wakefulness.  For  hours 
he  lay  tossing  restlessly.  Hitherto  his  one  object 
had  been  the  finding  of  the  Rain-Girl.  He  had  been 
like  Japheth  in  search  of  a  father.  Had  Japheth 
ever  thought  that  the  success  of  his  undertaking 
might  involve  him  in  embarrassment?  What  had 


152  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

he  done  with  his  father  when  he  found  him?  Did 
he  actually  find  him? 

In  spite  of  the  feeling  of  exhilaration  at  the  suc- 
cessful issue  of  his  quest,  he  was  conscious  that  he 
had  come  to  a  mile-stone,  and  that  there  was  no 
sign-post  to  indicate  his  future  course.  Hitherto  he 
had  given  no  thought  to  the  future,  had  never  seemed 
to  be  able  to  see  beyond  the  second  meeting  with  the 
Rain-Girl.  Now  he  found  his  mind  a  seething 
whirl  of  questions.  Where  was  it  all  going  to  end, 
and  what  was  he  to  do  when  his  money  was  ex- 
hausted? He  reproached  himself  as  an  impulsive 
fool  for — for — oh,  everything.  What  was  his  ob- 
ject? The  whole  thing  was  nothing  short  of  a  mid- 
summer-madness. What  would  Tallis  say?  What 
would  Aunt  Caroline  think,  or  say,  if  she  knew? 
They  were  not  imbued  with  the  same  reticence  as 
Drewitt.  They  would  comment,  the  one  laugh- 
ingly, the  other  with  the  caustic  worldliness  of  a 
Mrs.  Grundy. 

Still  he  had  met  the  Rain-Girl,  and  she  had  seemed 
to  pick  up  the  thread  where  they  had  left  it  in  the 
smoking-room  of  "The  Two  Dragons."  At  least 
he  had  before  him  further  meetings.  There  was 

that  compensation,  unless What  if  she  were  to 

leave  early  in  the  morning?  What  if  he  should  be  ill 
again?  What  a  fool  he  had  been  not  to  give  instruc- 
tions as  to  when  he  was  to  be  called.  Surely  she 
would  not  go  without  assuring  herself  that  he  was 
better. 

Then   with   a   strange    revulsion    of    feeling   he 


THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL    153 

cursed  himself  for  being  such  a  fool  as  to  faint.  He 
had  never  fainted  before.  It  was  all  her  fault. 

This  girl  seemed  fated  to  upset  everything  he 
planned.  What  right  had  she  to  come  into  his  life 
at  so  psychological  a  moment  as  the  first  day  of  his 
freedom?  He  had  given  months  to  the  thought  of 
cutting  himself  adrift  from  old  ties  and  restraints. 
Then  in  a  flash  she  had  destroyed  everything — she 
and  the  weather.  The  open  road  and  the  wayside 
hedge  no  longer  beckoned  to  him.  The  thought  of 
hour  after  idle  hour  spent  lying  on  his  back  listening 
to  the  lark  had  now  passed  like  an  opium  vision. 
The  smell  of  the  earth,  the  heat  of  the  sun  and  the 
lazily  drifting  clouds,  all  seemed  to  belong  to  some- 
thing beyond  him,  something  far  away.  He  was — 
yes,  he  must  be  light-headed. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  eventually  he  fell 
asleep  and  dreamed  that  he  had  just  arrived  at 
Folkestone  and  discovered  Lord  Drewitt  and  the 
Rain-Girl  paddling. 


The  next  morning  Beresford  was  awakened  by  a 
feeling  that  some  one  was  looking  at  him.  He 
opened  his  eyes  to  find  the  chambermaid  gazing 
sympathetically  down  upon  him. 

"Are  you  feeling  better,  sir?"  she  enquired  solicit- 
ously as  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  he  replied,  then  memory  flood- 


154  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

ing  back  upon  him:  "What's  the  time?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"It's  just  past  eleven,  sir." 

"What?"  cried  Beresford,  starting  up  in  bed, 
only  restrained  from  throwing  his  legs  out  by  the 
girl's  presence. 

"Just  past  eleven,  sir,"  repeated  the  girl,  gazing 
at  him  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a  woman  for  an 
invalid,  especially  a  good-looking  man  invalid. 

"Good  heavens !  Here,  clear  out,  my  good  girl," 
he  cried.  "I  must  get  up." 

"You'll  find  the  bath-room  the  second  door  on 
the  right,  sir,"  she  said.  "I've  brought  your  shaving 
water,"  and  with  that  she  disappeared.  Beresford 
threw  himself  out  of  bed,  tore  on  his  bath-robe  and, 
snatching  up  his  sponge  and  towels,  made  a  dash 
for  the  corridor.  Never  had  he  bathed  with  such 
expedition  as  on  that  morning. 

Returning  to  his  own  room  he  found  waiting  at 
the  door  a  little  dark  man  in  a  black  frock-coat. 

"I  hope  you're  feeling  better  this  morning,  sir," 
he  said,  with  a  smile  that  radiated  tact  and  under- 
standing. "I'm  the  manager." 

"Oh !  I'm  all  right  again  now,  thank  you,"  said 
Beresford,  with  a  laugh  as  he  entered  the  room. 
"Come  in,"  and  the  manager  followed  him.  "It's 
very  kind  of  you  to  enquire,"  he  continued,  "and  I 
feel  I  owe  you  an  apology  for  the  disturbance  I 
created  last  night  in  the  dining-room." 

"Not  at  all,  sir,"  said  the  manager  sympatheti- 


THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL    155 

cally,  "we  were  all  very  sorry  indeed  that  you  should 
be  ill." 

"I  shan't  do  it  again,"  said  Beresford  confidently. 
"I  had  pneumonia  some  time  back,  and  the  doctor 
told  me  to  take  care,  and — and — well,  I  had  rather 
a  strenuous  day  yesterday." 

"If  you  would  like  your  meals  served  in  your 
room "  began  the  manager. 

"No,  thanks,  I'm  all  right  now,"  and  with  that 
the  manager  took  his  bowing  departure,  leaving 
Beresford  greatly  impressed  by  the  courteous  meth- 
ods adopted  by  the  management  of  the  Imperial. 

With  swift  decisive  strokes  he  shaved,  all  the 
time  the  razor  seeming  to  keep  time  to  the  unending 
question,  "Has  she  gone?"  He  prayed  that  he 
might  not  cut  himself.  He  preferred  to  meet  her 
unadorned  by  sticking-plaster. 

He  was  engaged  in  brushing  his  hair  when  a 
knock  sounded  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  he  cried. 

A  moment  after  a  waiter  entered  with  a  breakfast- 
tray.  Beresford  stared  at  him. 

"I  didn't  order  breakfast  in  my  room,"  he  said. 

The  man  looked  at  him  surprised. 

"No,  sir?"  he  interrogated.  "I  was  instructed 
to  bring  it  up." 

"By  whom?" 

"By  Mr.  Byles,  sir,  the  maitre  d'hotel." 

"I  didn't  order  it,"  said  Beresford.  "Anyhow, 
it's  rather  a  good  idea,"  he  added,  conscious  that  he 
was  feeling  very  hungry;  he  had  eaten  nothing  since 


156  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

the  previous  morning's  breakfast,  except  a  lightly 
boiled  sole  that  the  Rain-Girl  had  caused  to  be  sent 
to  his  room. 

By  Jove,  that  was  why  he  had  fainted !  Suddenly 
he  remembered  that  he  had  gone  the  whole  day 
without  food.  With  a  nod  he  dismissed  the  man 
and,  a  moment  later,  lifted  the  covers  from  the  two 
dishes  and  gazed  down  at  them.  In  one  were  boiled 
fillets  of  sole  and  in  the  other  an  omelette. 

"It's  the  Rain-Girl  for  a  dollar,"  he  cried  joy- 
fully and,  drawing  up  a  chair,  he  proceeded  to  eat 
with  the  appetite  of  a  man  who  has  eaten  practically 
nothing  for  twenty-four  hours. 

The  food  was  good,  the  tea  was  stimulating,  and 
once  more  life  had  become  a  thing  of  crimson  and 
of  gold.  It  was  strange,  he  argued,  how  a  good 
meal  changed  one's  mental  outlook,  and  now — 
what?  He  paused  as  he  lighted  a  cigarette.  What 
was  he  to  say  when  he  met  her?  With  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulders  he  walked  towards  the  lift. 

"Are  you  better?" 

Beresford  turned  swiftly  on  his  heel.  It  was  the 
Rain-Girl  in  a  white  linen  frock  and  a  panama  hat. 
He  was  just  crossing  the  hall  wondering  where  he 
should  begin  his  search,  when  she  had  appeared 
from  apparently  nowhere. 

"Thanks  to  you;  I  am  quite  well  again."  Then 
with  inspiration  he  added,  "I'm  as  right  as  rain." 

She  smiled.  "Did "  he  hesitated  for  a  moment, 

"did  you  order  my  breakfast?" 

She  nodded. 


THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL    157 

"I  knew  it  must  be  you,"  he  said.  "Thank  you 
so  much  for  all  you  have  done,"  then  he  added 
hastily,  "I'm  better;  but  I  don't  think  I'm  quite  well 
enough  to  dispense  with  the  services  of  a  nurse." 

She  flashed  him  a  look  from  under  her  lashes, 
then  she  laughed,  that  same  gurgling  little  laugh  that 
had  so  fascinated  him  in  the  smoking-room  of  "The 
Two  Dragons." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  strong  enough  to  be  taken  for 
a  walk?"  he  asked,  "or  had  I  better  have  a  bath- 
chair?  Of  course,  I  should  gain  more  sympathy  in 
a  bath-chair,  with  you  walking  beside  it,"  he  added 
whimsically. 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  walk  beside  your  bath- 
chair,"  she  said,  obviously  a  little  puzzled  at  his 
mood. 

"Then  I'm  afraid  it  will  have  to  be  a  walk. 
Please  continue  your  good  work,"  he  added  as  he 
saw  her  hesitate.  "I  want  to  explain  things  to  you 
and — and  I  promise  I  won't  be  a  nuisance  if  you 
will  give  me  half  an  hour." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  your  being  a  nuisance,"  she 
said,  "only  that "  she  hesitated. 

"But  you  do,"  said  Beresford. 

"Do  what?"  she  enquired,  looking  up  at  him  in 
surprise. 

"Know  me." 

"How  clever  of  you  to  anticipate  my  thoughts." 

"That's  always  a  woman's  thought  when  she  hesi- 
tates on  the  brink  of  the  unconventional." 


158  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Well,  you  may  come  into  the  garden  and  sit 
down,"  she  said  leading  the  way. 

Beresford  followed,  conscious  that  every  head  in 
sight,  male  and  female,  was  turned  as  she  passed. 
Entering  the  hotel  gardens,  she  led  the  way  to  a 
seat  shaded  by  a  large  elm.  For  several  minutes 
they  sat  silent.  At  the  other  side  of  the  lawn  two 
girls  and  a  man  were  playing  an  indolent  game  of 
croquet.  The  tap-tap  of  the  balls  seemed  to  add  to 
the  languor  of  the  day.  Beresford  sighed  his  con- 
tent. Of  course  it  was  all  a  dream ;  but  even  from  a 
dream  it  was  possible  to  extract  a  passing  pleasure. 

"You  know  I  got  pneumonia,"  he  said  casually, 
conscious  that  as  a  conversational  opening  it  bor- 
dered on  the  abrupt. 

"Please  tell  me,"  she  said,  turning  towards  him. 
"I'm  so  sorry." 

He  then  explained  how  his  stay  at  "The  Two 
Dragons"  had  been  protracted  from  a  single  night 
into  six  weeks.  He  told  of  Tallis  and  the  landlord, 
touched  on  the  grim  irony  of  fate  and  finally 
added — 

"But  what  worried  me  most  was  that  you  should 
think  I  had "  then  he  stopped  suddenly,  con- 
scious of  his  tactlessness  in  referring  to  the  implied 
appointment  made  that  evening  in  the  smoking- 
room. 

"I  wondered  what  had  happened,"  she  said,  look- 
ing straight  in  front  of  her.  "I  never  thought — 
that  you  might  be  ill." 

"Then  you  must  have  thought  I  had  forgotten." 


THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL    159 

"But  why  not?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  regretfully. 

"It  does  seem  rather  horrid  of  me — now,"  she 
admitted,  slightly  stressing  the  word  "now,"  "but 
I  didn't  leave  'The  Two  Dragons'  till  nearly  eleven 
and " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Beresford  simply. 

"Why  did  you  give  up  your  tramp?"  she  enquired 
irrelevantly. 

"Why  did  you  give  up  yours?"  he  countered. 

"I  had  to  go  to  London." 

"So  did  I." 

"But  I  thought  you  had  left  London  for  good," 
she  persisted. 

"So  did  I." 

"Yet "  she  paused. 

"I  was  tramping  exactly  one  day,"  he  said,  filling 
in  the  blank. 

She  nodded;  but  her  eyes  continued  to  interrogate 
him. 

"Then  I  had  to  return  to  London,"  he  repeated. 

"I  had  arranged  to  be  in  London  on  May  5th," 
she  volunteered. 

"And  I  had  arranged  never  to  be  in  London 
again."  He  smiled  at  her  obvious  bewilderment. 

"But  if  you  had  arranged  never  to  be  in  London 
again,  why ?" 

"Did  I  return?"  he  finished  the  sentence  for  her. 

Again  she  nodded. 

"Have  you  never  done  anything  that  you  cannot 
explain  to  yourself?"  he  questioned. 


160  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  always  doing  those  sort  of 
things,"  she  admitted  with  a  laugh. 

"Well,  that's  why  I  came  to  London,  something 
drew  me  back  again." 

"How  strange,"  she  said  seriously. 

"Not  at  all.  Some  day  perhaps  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  was." 

He  longed  to  enquire  why  she  was  in  Folkestone 
alone,  instead  he  asked — 

"How  did  you  find  the  Ritz-Carlton?" 

"Oh,  at  the  last  moment  auntie  decided  that  she 
liked  the  Belle  Vue  better,  so  we  went  there." 

Beresford  felt  that  he  wanted  to  laugh.  The 
grim  humour  of  the  situation  appealed  to  him. 
Here  had  he  been  living  expensively  at  the  Ritz- 
Carlton  for  the  sole  purpose  of  meeting  the  Rain- 
Girl,  while  she  had  gone  to  another  hotel  not  a  hun- 
dred yards  distant.  He  had  considerably  curtailed 
the  period  of  his  adventure  by  the  reckless  expendi- 
ture of  his  limited  resources,  and  all  in  vain.  Surely 
Fate  was  a  mistress  of  irony. 

"It — it  was  a  little  embarrassing  last  night,"  she 
said  hesitatingly. 

"I've  never  fainted  before,"  he  said  a  little  shame- 
facedly. "I'm  so  sorry,  and  you  were  most  awfully 
kind." 

"You  see  I've  been  a  nurse,  a  V.A.D." 

"If  you  had  not  been  there  they  would  probably 
have  poured  the  soup  tureen  over  me,  or  cut  off  my 
trousers  at  the  knee,  or  some  such  thing  as  that. 


THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL     161 

People  have  a  tendency  to  do  the  most  insane  things 
on  such  occasions." 

"I  didn't  know  what  had  happened,"  she  said, 
"until  I  felt  my  chair  being  pulled  from  under  me." 

"Pulled  from  under  you!" 

"Yes,  you'd  got  hold  of  the  leg  of  my  chair,  and 
seemed  determined  to  pull  me  down  on  top  of  you." 
Then  suddenly  she  laughed.  "It  was  really  very 
funny.  One  man  brought  a  soda-water  syphon,  and 
somebody  suggested  burning  feathers  under  you? 
nose,  as  if  everybody  carried  a  bunch  of  feathers 
about  with  them  to — to "  and  again  she  laughed. 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  have  a  little  walk,"  he 
suggested.  "Gentle  exercise  is  good  for  the  debili- 
tated. I'll  promise  not  to  faint." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  critically. 

"And,"  he  continued,  "if  I  do,  I  won't  bring  you 
to  earth  with  me." 

"Very  well,"  she  said  rising;  "on  those  conditions 
I'll  agree." 

They  turned  out  on  to  the  Leas  and  walked  slowly 
in  the  direction  of  Sandgate.  Beresford  inhaled 
deeply  the  warm  air,  fresh  with  the  scent  of  the  sea. 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  felt  so  at  peace  with  the 
world  as  on  this  dream-morning;  for,  of  course,  it 
was  all  a  dream.  Was  the  Rain-Girl  really  walking 
with  him,  even  in  a  dream?  He  turned  to  assure 
himself  of  the  fact,  and  found  her  looking  up  at  him. 
Involuntarily  he  smiled  and  saw  the  answering  smile 
in  her  eyes. 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  said 


162  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"So  was  I." 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  continued,  ''that  you  are 
either  the  most  indifferent  or  the  most  incurious  man 
I  have  ever  met." 

"Am  I  ?  Perhaps  I  am,"  he  added,  "indifferent  to 
all  except  the  present,  incurious  as  to  everything 
beyond  the  range  of  my  vision." 

"The  proper  thing,"  she  said  after  a  further 
period  of  silence,  "was  to  ask  why.  When  a  woman 
accuses  a  man  of  not  being  curious,  it  always  means 
that  she  wants  to  tell  him  something." 

"Does  it?" 

She  nodded.  Her  nod  seemed  to  establish  an  inti- 
macy between  them. 

"Then  will  you  please  tell  me  something?" 

"You  make  things  so — so  difficult,"  she  said 
crinkling  her  brows  and  looking  straight  before  her. 
"You  don't  avail  yourself  of  conversational  open- 
ings." She  turned  and  smiled  up  at  him. 

"Please  why  am  I  the  most  commonplace  and 
ordinary  of  men?"  he  enquired. 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  she  laughed.  "I  said  you 
were  either  the  most  indifferent  or  most  incurious 
of  men." 

"Please  tell  me  why?" 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "you  have  never  expressed 
the  least  curiosity  as  to  who  I  am." 

"But  you're  the  Rain-Girl."  He  held  his  breath, 
wondering  how  she  would  receive  the  reference  to 
the  name  he  had  given  her. 

A  little  gurgling  laugh  reassured  him. 


THE  MEETING  WITH  THE  RAIN-GIRL     163 

"But  my  godfathers  and  godmothers  do  not  know 
me  as "  she  hesitated  slightly,  "as  the  Rain- 
Girl." 

"Thanks  to  the  beneficent  decrees  of  Providence^ 
our  godfathers  and  godmothers  never  know  us  as  we 
are." 

She  nodded  agreement. 

"If  you  choose  that  I  shall  know  who  you  are  you 
will  tell  me." 

"Then  you  don't  know  my  name?"  She  looked 
up  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"Not  the  G.G.  name." 

"The  G.G.  name?" 

"The  godfathers'  and  godmothers',"  he  explained. 

Again  she  laughed,  seemingly  amused  at  the  con- 
traction. 

"Well,  my  name  is "  she  began,  then  hesi- 
tated. 

"Yes,"  said  Beresford. 

"Lola  Craven." 

"Lola  Craven!"  He  stopped  abruptly  and  stood 
looking  down  at  her,  the  picture  of  blank  astonish- 
ment. "Good  Lord!"  he  ejaculated. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  she  enquired,  looking 
at  him  in  wide-eyed  surprise. 

Then  he  laughed,  knowing  now  beyond  all  doubt 
that  it  was  a  dream. 

"Shall  we  sit  down?"  he  said  at  length. 

They  walked  a  few  steps  to  a  seat  overlooking 
the  sea  and  sat  down.  Surely  this  was  the  craziest 
of  crazy  worlds,  he  decided.  Here  was  the  Rain- 


164  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Girl  turning  into  Lola  Craven.  An  heiress  on  a 
gate.  What  would  Drewitt  say?  Of  all  the  weird, 
fantastical,  incomprehensible 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  Suddenly  he  became  con- 
scious that  she  was  looking  at  him  as  if  waiting  for 
some  explanation.  "You  see  I've  heard  a  lot  about 
you." 

"About  me?" 

"Yes.  Lady  Drewitt  is  my  aunt,  and  Drew,  that 
is,  Lord  Drewitt,  is  my  cousin." 

"Ooooooh!"  she  said  slowly,  surprised  in  turn. 

"I  wonder  if  that  is  why  the  manager  came  up 
to  ask  how  I  was,"  he  said  half  to  himself. 

"You  wonder  if  what  was  why?"  she  asked, 
apparently  unconscious  of  any  violence  to  syntax. 

"Well,  he  certainly  wouldn't  have  been  interested 
in  me  for  my  own  sake ;  but  as  a  fr an  acquain- 
tance," he  corrected,  "of  Miss  Craven,  he  might 

"  He  stopped  suddenly  as  if  conscious  of  a 

change  in  his  companion.  A  shadow  seemed  to 
pass  over  her  face. 

"I  wish " 

"Please  just  go  on  being  the  Rain-Girl,  will  you?" 
he  asked  simply. 

She  looked  up,  smiled  a  little  sadly,  and  then 
nodded. 

"I  think  we  had  better  be  getting  back,"  she  said, 
and  there  was  something  in  her  tone  that  caused 
Beresford  to  curse  wealth,  heiresses,  convention  and 
all  that  went  to  build  up  the  fabric  of  civilisation 
and  progress. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES 


ON  returning  from  their  walk  on  the  Leas, 
Lola  had  gone  straight  to  her  room,  and 
had  not  entered  the  dining-room  until 
Beresford  was  half-way  through  lunch.  The  sudden 
change  in  her  manner  had  puzzled  him;  but  he  was 
determined  that  she  should  have  no  cause  to  feel 
that  he  was  taking  advantage  of  what,  after  all,  was 
a  chance  acquaintance. 

His  own  meal  finished,  he  left  the  dining-room, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  the  hotel.  That  afternoon 
he  spent  in  strolling  about  the  town,  taking  the  op- 
portunity of  ordering  some  red  roses  for  Lola. 
Returning  about  six  he  went  to  his  room,  feeling 
unaccountably  tired.  Lying  down  he  slept  until 
nearly' eight  o'clock,  and  again  he  was  late  at  dinner. 
When  half-way  through  his  meal  Lola  had  risen  and, 
bowing  to  him  with  a  friendly  little  smile,  had  left 
the  dining-room  and  he  saw  her  no  more  that  night. 
He  noticed  that  she  was  not  wearing  any  flowers. 

Later  on  in  the  smoking-room  a  number  of  men 
approached,  enquiring  if  he  were  better.  He  was 

165 


166  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

a  little  surprised  at  this  solicitude,  and  also  at  the 
friendliness  they  manifested.  He  was  not  altogether 
pleased  that  his  mishap  should  be  regarded  as  a  con- 
versational opening. 

He  recalled  the  manager's  solicitude  that  morn- 
ing, and  it  suddenly  dawned  upon  him  that  his 
acquaintance  with  Lola  Craven  was  responsible  for 
his  present  importance.  From  various  scraps  of 
conversation  he  overheard,  it  was  obvious  that  the 
arrival  at  Folkestone  of  the  heiress  whom  the  illus- 
trated papers  had  combined  to  make  famous,  was  a 
social  event  of  the  first  magnitude  and  importance. 

He  noticed  that  the  other  guests  would  cease  their 
conversation  to  gaze  at  her  as  she  passed.  Her 
entry  into  the  dining-room  caused  a  hush  in  the  hum 
of  conversation.  Mr.  Byles,  the  maitre  d'hotel, 
would  fidget  about  the  entrance  until  she  came  down, 
then  lead  the  way  to  her  table  and,  for  the  rest  of 
the  meal,  hover  about  in  the  neighbourhood  with  an 
eye  so  hawk-like  in  its  penetrative  intensity,  that  the 
waiter  in  attendance  upon  her  would  make  mistakes. 
This  was  Mr.  Byles's  opportunity.  He  would  swoop 
down,  annihilate  the  underling  with  a  glance,  purr 
at  him  with  restrained  intensity,  make  good  the  dam- 
age, smile  tactfully  and  withdraw. 

From  where  he  sat,  Beresford  had  watched  this 
little  comedy.  He  also  gleaned  considerable  amuse- 
ment from  the  interest  of  his  fellow-guests  in  Lola 
Craven;  who  herself  seemed  quite  oblivious  of  the 
sensation  her  advent  had  created.  The  married  men 
regarded  her  with  surreptitious  and  hopeless  admi- 


THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES         167 

ration,  disguised  by  feigned  indifference.  They  had 
perforce  to  listen  to  their  wives'  views  upon  girls 
staying  unchaperoned  at  hotels. 

The  single  men  looked  on  her  with  open  admira- 
tion, and  eyed  each  other  with  covert  suspicion. 
Suddenly  there  had  been  kindled  in  their  hearts  the 
flame  of  romance,  the  roof  that  sheltered  them  also 
sheltered  the  famous  heiress.  Their  emotions 
soared  high  into  space. 

None  had  ever  met  an  heiress  before.  In  the 
minds  of  all  there  was  a  dim  idea  that  beauty  and 
wealth  were  never  to  be  found  roaming  together. 
To  them  the  word  "heiress"  called  up  visions  of 
plain  features  and  shapeless  bodies.  Possibly  that 
was  why  the  thought  of  marrying  an  heiress  had 
never  suggested  itself  to  them.  Here,  however,  was 
Providence  frankly  playing  into  their  hands. 

Beresford  was  struck  by  the  ingenuity  displayed 
by  various  of  the  male  guests  in  endeavouring  to  get 
to  know  Lola.  Some  were  gentlemen;  but  many 
were  merely  opportunists.  One  little  man,  who 
looked  like  "Our  Mr.  Something-or-other,"  was  par- 
ticularly assiduous.  One  day  when  walking  just  in 
front  of  Lola  he  deliberately  pulled  his  handker- 
chief out  of  his  pocket,  and  with  it  fluttered  a  one- 
pound  note.  Lola  walked  over  the  note  as  if  it  had 
not  existed,  and  the  little  man,  after  an  awkward 
pretence  of  having  discovered  his  loss,  had  turned 
and  retrieved  it. 

On  another  occasion  he  had  burst  unceremo- 
niously into  a  telephone-box  occupied  by  Lola,  and 


168  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

proceeded  to  apologise  as  if  there  were  a  counter 
between  them ;  but  Lola  continued  with  her  telephone 
conversation,  and  again  he  had  to  beat  a  retreat. 

Another  man  of  mature  years  and  over-mature 
complexion  seemed  to  be  in  a  perpetual  state  of 
having  lost  something,  which  he  suspected  was  in 
Lola's  neighbourhood.  Yet  another  invariably  car- 
ried his  hat  in  his  hand.  Beresford  suspected  that 
his  object  was  to  slip  it  on  a  chair  just  before  Lola 
sat  down.  After  all,  when  you  have  sat  on  a  man's 
hat,  it  is  a  little  difficult  to  refuse  to  receive  his 
apologies ! 

The  Thirty-Nine  Articles,  as  Beresford  dubbed 
them  after  a  careful  count,  resorted  to  every  pos- 
sible form  of  device  to  scrape  an  acquaintance  with 
the  heiress.  The  one  thing  they  did  not  do  was 
to  take  the  plunge.  There  was  something  in  Lola's 
manner  that  awed  them.  There  was  a  reserve  and 
dignity  about  her  bearing  that  was  unmistakable, 
and  instinctively  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles  recog- 
nised it,  a  circumstance  that  increased  Beresford's 
unpopularity. 

For  a  time  Beresford  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of 
reflected  glory  and  the  offer  of  unlimited  hospitality. 
As  soon  as  he  showed  his  face  in  any  of  the  common- 
rooms,  men  seemed  to  hurtle  through  space  and 
demand  that  he  should  drink  with  them.  Cigar  and 
cigarette-cases  were  thrust  upon  him,  men  challenged 
him  to  billiards,  sought  his  company  for  strolls, 
invited  him  to  bridge,  suggested  the  theatre,  a  bathe 
or  an  hour's  fishing.  He  found  it  all  very  bewilder- 


THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES          169 

ing.  At  first  he  had  been  at  a  loss  to  account  for  his 
amazing  popularity;  but  the  requests  for  an  intro- 
duction to  Lola  soon  convinced  him  that  it  was  not 
for  himself  alone  that  his  company  was  sought. 

On  the  second  day  Beresford  had  seen  Lola  only 
for  a  few  minutes  as  she  was  passing  through  the 
lounge.  She  had  stopped  to  enquire  how  he  was, 
and  he  noticed  a  marked  difference  in  her  manner. 
It  set  him  wondering  if  he  had  seriously  offended 
her,  and  if  so  what  he  had  done. 

On  the  third  day  he  did  not  see  her  either  at 
breakfast  or  lunch,  and  she  was  late  for  dinner.  He 
was  conscious  of  becoming  irritable  under  the  strain. 
He  had  deliberately  snubbed  two  or  three  men, 
whose  overtures  were  both  obvious  and  annoying. 
He  lingered  over  his  dinner,  determined  to  follow 
her  as  she  left  the  room.  Gradually  the  dining- 
room  emptied.  Lola  rose  and,  instead  of  walking 
towards  the  door,  came  over  to  his  table. 

"There's  no  need  to  ask  if  you  are  better,"  she 
said  with  a  friendly  smile,  as  he  rose  hurriedly. 

"I'm  not;  I'm  very  much  worse." 

"Worse?"  She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  interro- 
gation. 

"My  nurse  has  neglected  me,"  he  said  whim- 
sically, "and  I  have  been  grossly  rude  to  three 
fellow-guests  in  consequence." 

"Neglected  you?"  she  repeated,  "but "  she 

paused. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  nuisance  and  take  advantage 
of  your  kindness,"  he  said  seriously,  as  they  walked 


170  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

towards  the  door,  "but  if  you  can  spare  an  hour  or 
so  occasionally,  it  will  hasten  your  patient's 
recovery." 

"I  can  hardly  come  and  insist  on  talking  to  you, 
can  I?"  she  asked,  looking  up  at  him  frankly. 

"Will  you  come  in  the  lounge  now?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded  and  led  the  way  to  a  quiet  corner, 
where  they  seated  themselves. 

Beresford  ordered  coffee,  then  picked  up  the 
thread  of  conversation  where  it  had  been  interrupted. 

"Yes,  you  could,"  he  said. 

"Could  what?"  she  enquired. 

"Insist  on  coming  up  and  talking  to  me." 

"But "  she  began. 

"I'm  your  patient,  and  you've  neglected  me  hor- 
ribly." 

"But  I  don't  understand.  If  you  had  wanted " 

She  broke  off,  then  added,  "I  have  been  here  all 
the  time." 

"But  you  have  been  evading  your  responsibilities," 
insisted  Beresford  smiling.  "Suppose  I  had  followed 
you  about  like  a  lost  dog,  you  would  probably  have 
regretted  your  Samaritanism." 

"But  isn't  there  something  between  the  two?" 
she  asked. 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  how  many  hours  of  the  day 
you  can  tolerate  me,"  he  said;  "in  other  words, 
ration  me." 

She  smiled.  "I  thought  you  were  avoiding  me," 
she  said  quite  frankly. 

"/  avoiding  you?"     He  looked  at  her  incredu- 


THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES         171 

lously.  There  was  something  in  his  tone  that 
brought  the  colour  to  her  cheeks. 

She  nodded.  "I  did  really.  I  should  have  liked 
to  talk  to  you.  I'm  alone  here,  you  see.  I  suppose 
you  wonder  why?"  She  looked  up  at  him  suddenly. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It's  really  through  you." 

"Through  me?" 

"Yes,  what  you  said  at  Print,"  she  replied 
brightly.  "Don't  you  remember  saying  that  one 
should  have  courage  in  one's  unconventions?  Well, 
things  had  reached  such  a  point  I  felt  that  if  I  spent 
another  day  in  London  I  should  have  to  scream,  so 
I  got  a  doctor  I  know  to  prescribe  Folkestone  for  a 
week.  I  telegraphed  to  an  old  governess  to  meet  me 
here,  and  when  I  arrived  there  was  a  telegram  from 
her  saying  she  had  rheumatism,  and — and  I  decided 
to  stay  on.  Auntie  would  be  ill  if  she  knew, 
especially  as  I  refused  to  bring  my  maid,"  she  added 
with  a  laugh. 

Recalling  his  one  experience  of  Mrs.  Crisp's 
conversation,  Beresford  found  himself  able  to  sym- 
pathise with  any  one  whose  fate  it  was  to  live  in 
perpetual  nearness  to  her. 

"In  all  probability  my  reputation  is  in  tatters 
by  now;  that  is,  among  the  other  guests,"  she  said 
with  a  smile. 

"And  you  imply  that  the  responsibility  is  mine?" 

She  nodded. 

"But  aren't  heiresses  a  law  unto  themselves?" 


172  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

She  glanced  across  at  him  quickly,  as  if  seeking 
some  hidden  meaning  in  his  words. 

"No  one  can  be  a  law  unto  themselves,"  she  said 
quietly. 

He  then  proceeded  to  tell  of  the  embarrassments 
arising  from  his  acquaintance  with  her. 

"I  could  smoke  like  a  chimney,  drink  like  a  fish, 
and  live  like  the  proverbial  lord,"  he  explained,  "and 
all  for  nothing.  Such  is  the  power  of  reflected 
glory." 

She  laughed,  only  half-believing  him. 

"But  there's  another  side  to  the  picture,"  he  went 
on.     "It's  more  difficult  to  retain  than  to  win  popu- 
larity.   I  shall  have  to  work  for  it." 
'  "Work  for  it?"  she  queried,  looking  up  at  him 
with  puzzled  brows. 

"The  proffered  smokes  will  fail  and  the  drinks 
will  cease  unless  I  do  what  is  expected  of  me,  intro- 
duce to  you  the  whole  gang." 

"Mr.  Beresfordl"  she  cried.  "What  an  absolutely 
horrible  idea." 

"You  needn't  be  alarmed,"  he  hastened  to  assure 
her.  "I  have  no  intention  of  doing  anything  so 
foolish." 

"Foolish!" 

"There  are  exactly  thirty-nine  unattached  males 
staying  here,"  he  explained.  "I've  counted  them 
very  carefully.  They  range  in  age  from  seventeen 
to  seventy.  Assuming  the  equal  rights  of  man,  this 
would  mean  that  I  should  speak  to  you  once  every 


THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES         173 

fortieth  day,  whereas  I  hope  to  do  so  forty  times 
each  day." 

"You  are  really  almost  as  absurd  as  Lord 
Drewitt,"  she  laughed,  colouring  a  little. 

"You  must  be  kind  to  me,"  he  continued,  "or  I 
shall  let  loose  the  whole  horde  upon  you.  Within 
three  days  I  shall  be  the  most  unpopular  man  in 
Folkestone.  Those  who  have  urged  me  to  smoke 
cigars  and  cigarettes  will  wish  to  stab  me.  Those 
who  have  asked  me  to  drink  at  their  expense  will 
suddenly  develop  into  potential  Wainewrights  and 
Neal  Creams.  I  shall  never  dare  to  drink  with  any 
one  for  fear  of  being  poisoned." 

"I  wonder  why  men  are  like  that?"  she  said,  with 
a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes. 

"I  want  to  make  a  compact  with  you,"  he  said. 

For  some  minutes  neither  spoke ;  she  continued  to 
gaze  straight  in  front  of  her  with  dreamy  intentness. 
Beresford  smoked  contentedly. 

"A  compact?"  she  queried  presently,  turning  to 
him. 

"If  you'll  come  for  a  walk  every  morning,  I'll 
promise  not  to  introduce  anybody  to  you." 

For  a  few  moments  she  appeared  to  be  debating 
the  suggestion,  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  a  smile 
in  her  eyes. 

"Of  two  evils  choose  the  lesser,"  he  suggested. 
"I'm  only  one,  they  are  thirty-nine." 

"Very  well,"  she  laughed,  "I'll  agree;  but  you 
must  keep  them  from  being  annoying." 

"I'll  buy  a  machine-gun,  if  necessary." 


174  THE  RAIN-GIRL 


"I  hate  men,"  said  Lola,  apparently  addressing 
a  sparrow  that  had  perched  upon  a  bush  just  in 
front  of  her. 

Beresford  smoked  on  in  silence,  feeling  that  the 
remark  required  no  comment  from  him. 

That  morning  he  had  waited  for  her  in  the  hall, 
and  they  had  set  out  together  for  a  walk  on  the 
Leas,  Beresford  conscious  of  murderous  looks  from 
others  who  had  also  waited. 

"I  suppose  that  was  a  very  rude  remark,"  she 
said,  turning  to  him  with  a  smile. 

"Not  at  all.  When  I  think  of  the  Thirty-Nine 
Articles  of  Masculine  Faith  at  the  Imperial  I  can 
quite  sympathise  with  you." 

"What  a  good  thing  the  number  isn't  forty."  She 
looked  up  at  him  from  beneath  her  lashes. 

"It  may  be  before  long,"  he  said  imp erturb ably, 
"but  the  Fortieth  Article  is  determined  to  enjoy  the 
present." 

"Why  do  you  say  it  may  be  ?" 

"Vide  Aunt  Caroline,"  was  the  retort.  "She 
would  be  astonished  at  your  being  able  to  tolerate 
my  company  for  half  an  hour." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  Drew  and  I  always  seem  to  get  on  her 
nerves.  We  speak  a  different  language,  and  in 
reality  live  in  a  different  world  from  hers." 

"And  yet  you  are  so  dissimilar?" 

"We  are  as  different  from  each  other  as  each 


THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES         175 

individually  is  different  from  Aunt  Caroline.  Drew 
poses  as  having  eliminated  all  emotions  from  his 
nature." 

"And  you?"  she  interrogated. 

"I  have  eliminated  all  but  emotions,"  he  said, 
looking  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"And  yet  Lord  Drewitt  is — is "  she  hesitated. 

"As  emotional  as  a  theatrical-star  ousted  by  an 
understudy,"  he  suggested. 

"But  you  said  he  was  unemotional." 

"I  said  he  posed  as  being  unemotional." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  it's  a  bit  difficult  to  explain.  For  instance, 
suppose  you  were  upset  in  a  boat.  Drew  would  go 
in  after  you,  bring  you  out,  and  then  probably  man- 
age to  convey  to  you  that  you  were  not  looking  your 
best,  and  had  better  go  home  and  have  a  tidy-up." 

"Then  I  shall  never  fall  into  the  water  when 
Lord  Drewitt  is  about,"  she  said  gaily.  "I  should 
want  my  rescuer  to — to " 

"What?"  he  asked  with  interest. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  should  want  him  to  look  down 
at  me  anxiously  to  see  if — if  I  were  still  alive." 

"Yes,  with  the  water  dripping  from  his  nose  and 
ears." 

"Mr.  Beresford!"  she  cried  reproachfully,  "I 
think  that  you  and  Lord  Drewitt  between  you  would 
kill  romance." 

"How  can  a  man  afford  to  be  romantic?  There 
is  poor  Drewitt  with  his  title  and  two  thousand  a 
year,  as  he  would  tell  you  quite  frankly,  and  I, 


176  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

without  a  title  and  with  not  so  much  as  two  pounds  a 
year.  No,  romance  is  only  for  the  wealthy." 

"Romance  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
money,"  she  said  gravely.  "Romance  is  merely  a 
love  of  the  beautiful." 

"The  emotionally  beautiful,"  he  corrected. 

"Yes,  the  emotionally  beautiful,"  she  agreed, 
fixing  her  eyes  on  the  red  sail  of  a  boat  far  away 
in  the  distance. 

"The  poor  man  cannot  afford  to  be  emotional.  It 
would  lose  for  him  his  friends,  his  job  and  his 
chances  in  life." 

*'But  why  doesn't  Lord  Drewitt  do  something?" 

"Do  something!"  he  repeated.  "What  is  there 
for  him  to  do?" 

"Couldn't  he  work?"  she  suggested. 

"At  what?  Peers  can't  work.  He  might  drive  a 
taxi;  but  Aunt  Caroline  would  raise  Cain." 

She  remained  silent  for  some  time,  then  turning 
to  him  shook  her  head,  as  if  unable  to  make  a 
suggestion. 

"Proper  allowance  is  never  made  for  the  rise  of 
democracy.  Drew  and  I  are  the  products  of  our 
age.  Drew's  profession  was  that  of  being  a  peer, 
whilst  I  was  precipitated  into  the  Foreign  Office. 
Then  came  the  war,  and  everything  got  mixed  up 
again,  and  I "  he  paused. 

"And  you?"  repeated  Lola,  looking  up  at  him. 

"I'm  at  a  loose  end." 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  work?" 

"What  can  I  do.?     I  could  be  a  clerk  at  three 


THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES          177 

pounds  a  week;  but  that  would  be  worse  than  the 
Foreign  Office,  which  at  least  is  quite  a  decent  club. 
I  could  live  in  Peckham  and  come  up  each  day  by 
a  tram,  with  linen  a  little  more  frayed  each  year,  and 
clothes  a  little  dingier.  No,  I'm  afraid  I  lack  the 
courage  to  face  such  a  fate." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  persisted; 
then  a  moment  after  added,  "I'm  sorry,  it's  horribly 
rude  of  me  to  be  so  persistent." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said,  gazing  straight  in  front  of 
him.  "I'm  going  to  enjoy  what  I  can  enjoy,  and — 
and  not  bother  about  the  deluge,  which  is  inevitable. 
Louis  XIV  built  palaces  on  bogs,  and  was  quite 
happy  about  it;  I  shall  rear  castles  on  sand,  and  be 
still  happier." 

"I  don't  understand."     She  puckered  her  brows. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?"  he  asked,  smiling  at  her  mysti- 
fication. 

"Would  you  mind?  I  should  awfully  like  to 
know." 

"I  can  go  on  as  I  am  for  two  or  three  weeks 
more.  I'm  going  to  squeeze  every  drop  of  pleasure 
out  of  these  few  weeks,  and  not  bother  about  what 
happens  after." 

"But,"  she  persisted,  "what  are  you  going  to  do 
then?" 

"You  are  almost  as  material  as  Aunt  Caroline," 
he  smiled.  "Why  cannot  you  be  romantic?  I  once 
knew  an  artist  who  married  a  girl  when  all  he 
possessed  in  the  world  was  four  pounds  eighteen 
shillings  and  threepence,  he  was  very  insistent  upon 


178  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

the  threepence,  and  a  drawerful  of  pawn-tickets. 
That  was  a  splendid  act  of  romance." 

"Yes;  but  romance  must  be " 

"No  it  must  not,"  he  insisted.  "Romance  must 
be  just  its  mad,  capricious,  inconsequent  self." 

"But  you  must  have  something  in  mind.  What 
is  to  happen  after  the  four  or  five  weeks?" 

"Aunt  Caroline  suggests  the  colonies;  both  Drew 
and  I  regard  the  colonies  as  an  Imperial  asset  and 
nothing  more.  We  love  them  from  afar.  They 
produce  splendid  fellows — we've  fought  with  them; 
but  for  all  that  we  prefer  our  own  country,  just  as 
they  prefer  theirs." 

"But  what  have  you  to  live  for?  There  seems 
"  she  began. 

"Three  or  four  weeks'  good  time,  a  walk  a  day 
with  you,  and  the  privilege  of  keeping  off  the  Thirty- 
Nine  Articles,"  he  smiled. 

She  looked  at  him  gravely,  then  shook  her  head, 
as  if  entirely  unable  to  comprehend  his  attitude. 

"I  don't  understand  you  in  the  least,"  she  said  at 
length,  "and  I  don't  think  any  one  else  does,  either." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  enquired  Beresford. 

"I  was  talking  to  Lady  Tanagra  Elton  a  few  days 
back  about  Lord  Drewitt,  and  your  name  came  up, 
and "  she  paused. 

"And  what?"  enquired  Beresford,  knocking  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe  on  the  heel  of  his  boot.  "Do 
not  spare  me." 

"Well,"  said  Lola,  with  a  smile,  "she  said  that 
you  were  'a  dear  boy,  but  quite  mad.'  " 


THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES          179 

"God  bless  her  for  the  first  part  of  her  judgment," 
he  laughed;  "Tan  is  one  of  the  jewels  of  the  human 


race." 


"She  seemed  charming,"  agreed  Lola. 

"I  must  warn  you  against  her,  however,"  he  said 
with  mock-seriousness. 

"Warn  me?" 

"She's  a  born  match-maker.  She's  always  marry- 
ing her  friends  off  and "  he  paused  dramatically. 

"And  what?"  she  enquired. 

"They're  always  the  right  pairs.  Tata  never 
makes  a  mistake." 

"I  really  don't  understand  you,"  she  said  after  a 
long  pause,  "or  what  you  are  going  to  do  when — 
when "  she  hesitated. 

"Oh,  there  are  many  ways  of  shuffling-off,"  he 
smiled. 

"Suppose "  she  began,  then  hesitated. 

"Yes,  suppose ?" 

"Suppose  you  meant  something  to  someone  else, 
and  that  your  shuffling-off,  as  you  call  it,  would  pain 
them,  perhaps  more  than  pain  them,  what  then?" 

"If  you  refer  to  Aunt  Caroline,  I  can  assure  you 
that  you  are  wrong,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  that  even 
to  himself  sounded  unnatural. 

Lola  flashed  him  a  reproachful  look,  but  said 
nothing.  For  some  moments  she  remained  silent, 
her  head  turned  away. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  contritely;  but  still  she 
averted  her  head. 

"Please  don't  be  cross  with  me,"  he  said,  bending 


180  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

towards  her,  conscious  of  a  delicious  thrill  as  his 
shoulder  accidentally  touched  hers. 

A  moment  after  she  turned,  and  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  moist. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said  again,  "I " 

"Isn't  it  stupid  of  me,"  she  smiled  an  April  smile; 

"but "  she  paused,  then  a  moment  afterwards 

continued,  "you  and  Lord  Drewitt  seem  to  be  men 
that  should  have  a  lot  in  front  of  you ;  yet  you  both 
talk — you  talk  so — as  if  nothing  mattered,  as  if  life 
were  just  like  a  theatre,  and  when  the  curtain 
dropped  that  was  the  end  of  everything." 

"And  isn't  it?"  questioned  Beresford. 

"We  don't  know,  any  of  us." 

"A  man's  destiny  is  determined  by  his  forebears, 
and  he  is  moulded  by  his  environment,"  said  Beres- 
ford. 

"Unless  he  makes  his  own  environment,"  she 
suggested. 

"It's  easy  for  you  to  say  that.  You  have  before 
you  the  means  of  satisfying  every  wish." 

"Have  I?"  she  asked  dreamily;  then  as  if  coming 
back  to  realities,  "Are  you  sure?" 

"Haven't  you?" 

"Just  change  places  with  me  in'  your  imagina- 
tion," she  said,  "and  find  womanhood  represented 
by  the  feminine  equivalent  to  the  Thirty-Nine 
Articles." 

"I  apologise." 

"And  now  I  think  we  had  better  think  about 
lunch,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 


THE  THIRTY-NINE  ARTICLES          181 

They  walked  back  to  the  hotel  without  exchanging 
a  word.  At  the  entrance  were  grouped  some  of  the 
Thirty-Nine  anxious  lords  of  creation. 

When  Beresford  reached  his  own  table  in  the 
dining-room,  he  found  seated  at  it  a  little  man  with 
a  dark  moustache,  a  greasy  skin,  and  a  general 
atmosphere  of  One-of-Us  about  him.  The  man 
looked  up  and  smiled.  Beresford  bowed  coldly,  as 
he  recognised  one  of  his  most  persistent  would-be 
hosts,  a  man  who  had  invited  him  to  take  anything 
from  a  whisky-and-soda  to  a  high  dive  in  his  com- 
pany. 

Beresford  sought  out  Mr.  Byles,  who  smiled  with 
servile  tact  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

"There's  someone  sitting  at  my  table,  Byles," 
he  said;  "I'm  going  upstairs.  I  shall  be  down  in 
five  minutes.  You  will  find  me  a  table  to  myself  as 
I  arranged." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  said  Byles,  "but  we're  so 
full  up." 

"You  will  do  as  I  say,"  said  Beresford  coldly, 
"or  I  shall  report  the  matter  to  the  management. 
By  the  way,  the  seat  that  Mr.  Gordon  previously 
occupied  is  still  vacant,"  he  added  over  his  shoulder 
as  he  turned  towards  the  door,  conscious  of  a  look 
of  hatred  in  Byles's  eyes. 

When  he  returned  to  the  dining-room  his  table 
was  unoccupied,  and  the  man  with  the  dark  mous- 
tache and  the  moist  complexion  was  darting  glances 
of  hatred  in  his  direction.  Beresford  wondered 


182  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

whether  or  no  Byles  had  returned  the  handsome  tip 
that  was  to  procure  for  Mr.  Gordon  the  coveted 
seat.  Evidently  it  was  intended  to  be  a  stepping- 
stone  to  an  introduction  to  Lola. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  QUESTION  OF  ANKLES 

PLEASE  may  I  come  and  talk  •  to  you  while 
you  finish  breakfast?" 

Beresford  had  almost  concluded  his  own 
meal  when  Lola  entered  the  room,  the  ever  faithful 
Mr.  Byles  in  attendance.  Later  he  had  stepped 
across  to  her  table. 

"I  started  this  morning  feeling  like  a  boy  scout," 
he  continued;  "like  several  boy  scouts,  I  might  say," 
he  added,  as  he  dropped  into  the  chair  to  which  she 
motioned  him. 

"A  boy  scout  I"  She  looked  up  from  a  piece  of 
toast  she  was  buttering. 

"I  simply  yearned  to  make  every  one  happy. 
I  was  most  aggressively  eupeptic." 

"Is  that  why  you  came  over  to  talk  to  me?"  she 
enquired  without  looking  up  from  her  plate. 

"I'm  always  doing  good  deeds  for  you,"  he  said 
reproachfully. 

Her  eyes  questioned  him. 

"I  keep  from  you  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles." 

She  smiled  and  nodded. 

"One  morning,"  he  continued,  "you  will  look 
across  at  my  table  and  see  my  chair  empty." 

183 


184  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"How  do  you  know  I  shall  look  across?"  she 
challenged,  darting  him  a  look  from  beneath  her 
lashes. 

"You  are  merely  interrupting  the  story,"  he  said 
severely.  "One  morning  you  will  look  across  at  my 
table  and  find  it  empty,"  he  repeated.  "Later  in  the 
day  there  will  be  a  great  disturbance  when  my  body 
is  found  weltering  in  its  own  blood.  Heroes  of 
romance  always  welter  in  their  own  blood,"  he 
added. 

"Heroes  of  romance  I"  she  repeated  with  uplifted 
brows.  "Are  you  one?" 

"I  am  the  hero  of  my  own  romance,"  he  retorted; 
"but  you  interrupt  me.  I  had  just  got  to  where  I 
was  weltering  in  my  own  blood — the  victim  of  the 
Thirty-Nine  Articles." 

She  laughed. 

"And  ever  afterwards,"  he  proceeded,  "I  shall 
share  with  the  Roman  sentry,  Casabianca  and  Jack 
Cornwell  their  laurels  for  devotion  to  duty." 

"I  should  have  preferred  to  be  regarded  as  a 
pleasure,"  she  said  demurely. 

"It's  my, duty  to  protect  my  pleasure,"  he  retorted 
quietly. 

"But  you  were  saying  you  felt  like  a  boy 
scout " 

"Like  several  boy  scouts,"  he  corrected.  "I  felt 
as  Ulysses  must  have  felt  when  he  saw  them  drag- 
ging the  wooden  horse  into  Troy,  or  Leonidas  at 
Thermopylae,  or  Mr.  Lloyd  George  when  he  heard 
that  Mr.  Asquith  had  been  defeated  at  East  Fife; 


A  QUESTION  OF  ANKLES  185 

in  other  words,  I  felt  extremely  well  and  happy. 
Then  I  suddenly  caught  sight  of  a  girl  at  the  table 
by  the  window,  and  it  made  me "  he  paused. 

"Was  it  love  at  first  sight?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"And  then,"  he  continued,  "I  found  this  fair 
world  was  not  so  fair.  Nature  had  suddenly  ad- 
ministered a  cold  douche  in  the  shape  of  a  pair  of 
calves  that  terminated  suddenly  in  shapeless  feet." 

"Whatever  do  you  mean?"  she  cried,  laughing. 

"Merely  that  like  Godfrey  Elton,  I'm  very  sensi- 
tive about  ankles." 

"But  what  have  this  girl's  ankles  to  do  with  you?" 
She  crinkled  up  her  brows  in  a  way  she  had  when 
puzzled. 

"They  spoiled  my  breakfast,"  he  complained, 
"and  I'm  afraid  they're  going  to  spoil  the  whole 
day  for  me." 

"You  are  funny,"  she  smiled.  "I  don't  understand 
you  in  the  least.  I  always  thought  that  Englishmen 
were  unapproachable  in  the  morning;  but  you  are 
more  ridiculous  in  the  morning  than  during  the  rest 
of  the  day." 

"Imagine  the  state  of  mind  of  a  woman  conscious 
that  Nature  has  left  her  like  an  unfinished  sym- 
phony," he  continued.  "She  must  tremble  every 
time  she  opens  a  fashion  paper,  lest  some  readjust- 
ment of  the  surface  of  exposure  shall  betray  her." 

"But  we  are  not  all  Greeks,"  she  suggested. 

"A  woman  doesn't  require  to  be  a  Greek  to  be 
conscious  of  Nature's  inexplicable  oversights  in 
modelling,"  he  retorted. 


186  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I  decline  to  discuss  anatomy  so  soon  after  break- 
fast," she  laughed  as.  she  rose.  "I  shall  be  about 
ten  minutes,"  she  threw  at  him  over  her  shoulder  as 
she  walked  towards  the  door. 

Beresford  sauntered  through  the  vestibule,  and 
stood  smoking  on  the  hotel  steps  watching  the  sparkle 
of  the  sea. 

Presently  Lola  joined  him  and  they  set  out  in  the 
direction  of  Hythe.  For  some  time  they  walked  in 
silence;  Beresford  sucking  moodily  at  his  pipe. 

uls  anything  the  matter?"  she  enquired  at  length. 

"Everything's  the  matter,"  he  grumbled.  "What 
right  has  Nature  to  produce  anything  so  appalling 
as  that  poor  girl?" 

"Oh,  I  see,"  she  said. 

"Thick  ankles,  no  taste  in  dress,  sandy  hair,  sand- 
coloured  eyelashes,  spectacles.  Shapeless,  hopeless 
and  alone." 

"But "  began  Lola. 

"If  you  want  a  more  comprehensive  list  of  fem- 
inine disabilities,"  he  continued,  "you  are  insatiable. 
Such  people  are  a  challenge  to  religious  belief." 
There  was  a  note  of  gloomy  indignation  in  his 
voice. 

"But  perhaps  she's  happy,"  suggested  Lola. 

"Happy!"  cried  Beresford.  "Would  you  be 
happy  if  you  were  in  her  place?" 

She  shuddered  slightly. 

"What  right  has  Nature  to  give  you  all  that  she 
has  given  you,  and  deny  that  girl  all  she  has  denied 
her.  How  can  she  have  a  good  time?" 


A  QUESTION  OF  ANKLES  187 

She  looked  at  him  swiftly.  He  was  in  deadly 
earnest. 

"Perhaps  she  doesn't  mind,"  she  suggested  ten- 
tatively. 

"Doesn't  mind?"  he  cried.  "What  woman 
doesn't  mind  being  unattractive?  Imagine  what  she 
must  feel  when  she  sees  you." 

Again  she  flashed  at  him  an  enquiring  look;  but 
there  was  nothing  in  his  face  suggestive  of  a  com- 
pliment. 

"You  have  all  she  lacks,"  he  continued,  "and  it's 
all — it's  all — oh,  absolutely  rotten,"  he  finished  up, 
ejecting  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  by  knocking  it  vigor- 
ously upon  the  handle  of  his  stick.  Then  a  moment 
later  catching  her  eye  he  laughed.  "I  suppose  I'm 
on  my  hobby-horse,"  he  said. 

"But  why  bully  me?"  she  asked  plaintively. 

"Was  I  bullying  you?"  he  said.  "I'm  dreadfully 
sorry;  but  such  things  render  me  capable  of  bullying 
the  Fates  themselves.  You  see  I  was  just  catalogu- 
ing that  poor  girl's  disabilities  when  you  came  into 
the  room,  and  it  made  me  feel  a  selfish  beast." 

"But  how?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  you  see  I  ought  to  be  trying  to  give  her 
a  good  time  instead  of " 

"Giving  me  a  good  time,"  she  suggested  avoiding 
his  gaze. 

"Letting  you  give  me  a  good  time,"  he  concluded. 
"Oh !  let's  sit  down,  perhaps  I  shall  get  into  a  better 
humour  if  I  listen  to  the  larks.  Yet  it  makes  me 
murderous  when  I  think  of  those  old  ruffians  in 


188  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Rome  who  considered  larks'  tongues  a  delicacy." 

"Don't  you  think  you  would  be  better  if  I  left 
you  alone?"  she  suggested,  as  he  dropped  down  upon 
the  grass  beside  her. 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  he  cried,  looking  across  at 
her.  "What  an  awful  idea." 

"But  you  seem  so "  she  hesitated. 

"Well,  I'll  forget  those  utilitarian  ankles,"  he 
smiled. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 
"Seriously,"  she  added,  as  he  smiled  across  at  her. 
"Has  it  ever  struck  you  that  everything  ends?"  She 
kept  her  face  averted. 

"It  has."  He  plucked  a  strong-looking  blade  of 
grass  and  proceeded  to  use  it  as  a  pipe-cleaner. 

For  some  minutes  there  was  silence. 

"I  said  it  has,"  he  repeated,  looking  up  from  his 
occupation. 

She  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  a  little  clump  of 
grass  with  which  she  was  toying. 

"You've  been  very  nice  to  me,"  she  began  in  a 
low  voice. 

"I  have,"  with  decision. 

She  looked  up  quickly.  "Are  you  laughing  at 
me?"  she  asked  simply.  There  was  in  her  eyes  just 
a  suspicion  of  reproach. 

To  Beresford  she  seemed  to  possess  the  power 
of  expressing  her  every  emotion  without  the  necessity 
for  speech.  Her  eyes,  he  decided  for  the  thousandth 
time,  were  the  most  wonderful  ever  bestowed  upon 
woman. 


A  QUESTION  OF  ANKLES  189 

"I  was  not,"  he  said  in  reply  to  her  question. 

"But  you  are  not  being  serious,  are  you?"  There 
was  the  simplicity  of  a  child  in  the  look  that  accom- 
panied her  words. 

"Must  I  be  serious?"  he  asked,  pocketing  his  pipe 
and  taking  out  his  cigarette-case. 

"Pleeeeeease." 

Again  there  was  silence,  during  which  Beresford 
lighted  a  cigarette. 

"I  just  wanted  you  to  know,"  she  said. 

"That  I  had  been  nice  to  you?" 

She  nodded. 

"Thank  you." 

"I  don't  like  men,"  she  began,  and  then  hesitated. 

"As  a  conversational  opening  to  set  me  at  my 
ease "  he  began  with  a  smile. 

"Now  you  are  not  being  serious,"  she  protested. 

"What  I  wanted  to  tell  you  was "  again  she 

paused,  "that — that — you  have  been  so  different 
from  the  others." 

"Shall  we  take  all  that  for  granted?"  He  smiled 
across  at  her  a  friendly,  understanding  smile. 

"Oh  yes,  let's,"  she  cried  with  a  sigh  of  relief;  "I 

have  been  wanting  to  tell  you  only  I Of  course, 

it  seems  silly,  doesn't  it?" 

"Does  it?" 

"Now,"  she  continued  with  a  great  air  of  decision, 
"there's  the  other  thing." 

"Is  that  serious  also?"  he  asked  quizzically. 

She  nodded  vigorously. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  be  very  rude,"  she  cried 


190  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

with  a  sudden  change  of  manner.  The  rapid  alter- 
nations of  her  moods  always  charmed  him. 

"To  preserve  the  balance?"  he  suggested,  "you 
have  my  full  permission." 

"And  you  won't  be  cross?"  she  queried  a  little 
anxiously. 

lfl  promise  to  combine  the  patience  of  Job  with 
the  restraint  of  William  the  Silent." 

"Suppose "  she  began,  then  paused. 

"Suppose  what?" 

"Suppose  you  thought  I  was  going  to  do  some- 
thing very — very  foolish,  what  would  you  do?" 

"Envy  the  happy  man." 

"Oh,  please  be  serious,"  sjie  pleaded  with  a  slight 
blush,  biting  her  under-lip  to  hide  the  smile  that  his 
retort  had  called  up. 

"Listen  to  that  lark."  Beresford  lifted  his  eyes 
in  an  endeavour  to  discover  the  bird  from  which 
came  the  flood  of  song.  "Suppose  you  were  to  ask 
him  to  be  serious,"  he  suggested.  "I'm  too  happy 
to  be  serious." 

"But  you  are  not "  she  hesitated. 

"Still,  I'll  promise." 

"You  know  you  worry  me." 

"Worry  you?"  Suddenly  for  Beresford  the  lark 
ceased  its  song,  and  the  sunshine  lost  its  joyousness. 

"I  mean  I'm  worried  about  you." 

"For  that  re-arrangement  of  words  I  thank  you." 

"Please,"  she  pleaded. 

"I  thought  you  meant  that  I  was  a  nuisance.    If 


A  QUESTION  OF  ANKLES  191 

I  am  you  will  tell  me,  won't  you?"  The  earnestness 
of  his  manner  was  unmistakable. 

"Please  don't  be  foolish,"  she  said  reproachfully. 
"I  know  it's  impertinent  of  me;  but  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  about  yourself,  about " 

"About  myself?"  he  queried.  "I've  told  you  all 
there  is  to  tell." 

"I  mean  about  the  future,"  she  persisted. 

"Like  the  mule,  I  have  no  future." 

She  turned  her  head  aside,  and  mechanically  began 
to  pluck  blades  of  grass. 

"You  see,"  she  began,  her  head  still  averted. 

"I'm  sorry;  but  I  don't." 

"You're  most  horribly  difficult  to  talk  to,"  she 
said,  screwing  up  her  eyebrows. 

"But  you  said -" 

"You  promised  to  be  serious,  please — pleeeease 
be  nice." 

Be  nice  I  Did  she  know  that  she  was  tormenting 
him,  that  she  was  maddening,  that  she  was  irresist- 
ible in  that  porridge-coloured  frock — that  was  the 
nearest  he  could  get  to  the  actual  tint — and  that 
floppy  sort  of  hat  with  orange  ribbon,  and  her  grey 
suede  shoes  and  stockings?  What  an  ankle  1 

"I'll  be  as  serious  as  my  situation,"  he  said,  seeing 
reproach  in  the  eyes  she  turned  to  him.  "Honest 
Injun." 

She  smiled  and  nodded  at  the  childish  phrase. 

"You  were  talking  the  other  day "  she  said, 

then  stopped. 

"Why  not  blurt  it  out,"  he  suggested. 


192  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Well,  it  hurts  me  to  hear  you  talk  as  if  nothing 
matters,  as  if  life " 

"  'Life  is  a  watch  and  a  vision,  between  a  sleep  and 
a  sleep  ?'  "  he  quoted. 

"Yes;  but  Swinburne  meant  it  beautifully,  not  as 
something  to  be  got  rid  of.  When  I  was  a  kiddie," 
she  continued  inconsequently,  "I  used  to  tear  my 
pinnies  when  anybody  offended  me." 

"And  you  regard  me  as  wanting  to  tear  my 
pinny,"  he  continued  gravely. 

She  nodded,  with  a  flicker  of  a  smile.  "You're 
not  cross  with  me?"  She  looked  at  him  anxiously. 

Why  not  end  it  by  telling  her  everything.  Instead 
he  heard  himself  saying: 

"I  suppose  it  was  really  self-pity  that  made  me 
sorry  for  that  girl  with  the  ankles." 

"I  once  read  somewhere,"  she  said  gravely,  look- 
ing him  straight  in  the  eyes,  "that  we  are  all  of  us 
influenced  to  some  degree  by  every  one  we  meet.  I 
wish "  she  stopped. 

"You  wish  that  you  could  influence  me  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf  and  become  a  sort  of  New  Year 
resolution." 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"It's  easy  for  a  woman  to  preach  the  gospel  of 
content,  particularly  when  she  has  all  that  makes  for 
content.  You  would  probably  suggest  the  colonies, 
or  America,  thinking  of  The  Silver  King  or  Andrew 
Carnegie,  or " 

"Please  don't,  you  are  hurting  me." 

Both  the  words  and  the  tone  were  so  simple  that 


A  QUESTION  OF  ANKLES  193 

he  stopped  abruptly.  She  turned  aside.  He  could 
see  her  lower  lip  was  indrawn. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  contritely,  "I'm  all  jangly 
to-day.  It's  that  girl's  ankles,"  he  added  whimsically. 
"I  didn't  want  to  be  serious;  but  you  would  make 
me,  and  now  you're  angry." 

Her  head  was  still  turned  from  him.  What  a 
brute  he  had  been,  and  how  sensitive  she  was. 

"Lola,  please  forgive  me." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  her  name.  It 
slipped  out  unconsciously.  He  thrilled  at  the  sound. 
She  turned,  tears  dewing  her  lower  lashes.  Then 
with  a  sudden  movement  she  sprang  up. 

"Now  we  must  be  going,"  she  cried  with  a  sudden 
change  of  mood;  "I  do  nothing  but  eat,  sleep  and 
sit  about.  You  know,"  she  said  turning  to  him  with 
a  smile,  "we  women  have  to  consider  our  figures,  and 
you're  helping  me  to  ruin  mine." 

Beresford  followed  her,  his  mind  in  a  whirl  at 
the  sudden  change  in  her  mood. 

For  the  rest  of  the  morning  she  was  in  the  highest 
of  high  spirits.  She  insisted  on  scrambling  down 
to  the  water,  and  soon  succeeded  in  getting  both  her 
own  and  Beresford's  feet  soaked. 

"Look!"  she  cried,  drawing  back  her  skirts  to 
show  the  darker  line  just  above  her  ankles  where 
the  water  had  reached. 

"I'm  just  as  wet,  and  a  lot  more  uncomfortable," 
he  replied  lugubriously,  as  he  looked  down  at  his 
brown  boots  discoloured  by  the  sea-water.  "I  hate 
walking  in  wet  boots." 


194  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

She  laughed  gaily,  then  a  moment  after  darted  oflf 
like  the  wind. 

"Let's  run,"  she  cried  over  her  shoulder. 

Beresford  started  after  her,  conscious  of  the 
absurd  figure  he  must  appear  stumbling  through  the 
shingly  sand  after  this  fleet-footed  creature. 

Presently  she  dropped  down  suddenly,  he  almost 
falling  over  her. 

"That  was  good,"  she  panted,  looking  up  at  him 
with  burning  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes.  "I  feel 
like  a  mad  thing  this  morning.  What  do  you  think 
of  me?"  she  challenged. 

"I  think  I  would  rather  not  say,"  he  said  quietly 
as  he  sank  down  beside  her,  and  she  turned  and  for 
some  time  sat  looking  out  to  sea. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  DANGER  LINE 


OF  course,"  said  Lola,  as  she  trifled  with  her 
teaspoon,  "I  ought  really  to  have  gone 
back  to  town  as  soon  as  I  found  that  Miss 
Brock  could  not  come." 

"You  unquestionably  ought,"  agreed  Beresford, 
as  he  indolently  tossed  crumbs  of  cake  to  a  couple 
of  sparrows. 

She  glanced  at  him  swiftly,  then  dropped  her 
eyes. 

"That's  not  what  I  wanted  you  to  say." 

"I  know,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "Well,  why 
didn't  you  go  back  to  town?" 

"I  suppose  because  I  didn't  want  to."  She  gave 
him  a  look  from  under  her  lashes. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  garden  of  an  old  inn 
having  tea.  Lola  had  expressed  a  wish  for  an 
excursion  inland,  and  Beresford  had  hired  a  car. 

It  was  an  old-fashioned  spot  surrounded  by  an 
ivy-covered  wall.  The  back  of  the  house  was 
obscured  by  a  trellis  covered  with  crimson-ramblers. 
A  few  fruit  trees  disputed  with  currant  and  rose 

195 


196  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

bushes  the  possession  of  the  garden.  It  seemed  as 
if  Nature  had  been  permitted  to  go  her  own  way, 
without  either  help  or  hindrance  from  man. 

In  the  centre  of  the  garden  was  a  sundial,  moss- 
green  from  exposure  to  the  weather,  the  base  over- 
grown with  grass  and  some  sort  of  weed-like  creeper, 
whilst  from  above  the  lattice-windowed  inn,  a 
chimney  reared  its  long  neck  and  smoked  lazily  into 
the  blueness  of  the  sky.  Birds  were  twittering  and 
dropping  on  to  the  grass,  seizing  the  crumbs  of  cake 
that  Beresford  idly  tossed  to  them,  then,  as  if  sud- 
denly realising  their  daring,  they  would  speed  away 
to  devour  their  plunder  in  safety. 

As  the  days  passed,  Lola  and  Beresford  had 
drifted  into  the  habit  of  spending  all  their  time 
together.  There  had  been  no  plan  or  arrangement; 
it  had  just  happened.  They  still  sat  at  different 
tables  in  the  dining-room.  She  had  not  invited  him 
to  take  meals  with  her.  She  was  thinking  of  the 
proprieties,  he  decided.  He  was  conscious  that  they 
formed  the  topic  of  conversation  at  the  Imperial. 
The  Thirty-Nine  Articles  had  frankly  thrown  him 
overboard,  and  either  ignored  or  glared  at  him. 

During  their  walks  and  excursions  together,  Lola 
had  told  him  much  about  herself.  How  she  had  lost 
her  mother  when  a  few  months  old,  and  her  father, 
who  died  of  a  broken  heart,  three  years  later.  An 
uncle  in  New  Zealand,  whom  she  had  never  seen, 
had  assumed  responsibility  for  his  brother's  child. 

A  little  more  than  a  year  previously  he  had  died, 
and  she  had  inherited  his  vast  fortune. 


THE  DANGER  LINE  197 

Just  as  war  broke  out  her  guardian  had  arranged 
for  Mrs.  Crisp,  her  mother's  sister,  to  become  her 
"dragon."  Beresford  gathered  that  there  was  no 
very  great  sympathy  between  Lola  and  her  aunt. 

There  was  a  sadness  in  her  voice  when  she  spoke 
of  her  uncle.  Apparently  he  had  misogynist  tenden- 
cies, and  had  refused  to  see  the  niece  for  whom  he 
had  provided.  He  would  neither  allow  her  to  go 
to  New  Zealand,  nor  would  he  himself  come  to 
England.  He  was  a  man  who  lived  entirely  for  his 
work. 

In  return  Beresford  told  what  little  there  was  to 
tell  about  himself.  How  his  mother  had  died  when 
he  was  born,  and  his  father  had  been  killed  in  the 
hunting  field  a  year  later.  Up  to  the  time  of  his 
leaving  Oxford,  a  cousin  of  his  father's  had  acted 
as  guardian.  The  fact  that  neither  had  known  their 
parents  seemed  to  constitute  a  bond  between  them. 

"In  my  case,  you  see,"  Beresford  remarked  with 
a  smile,  when  he  had  concluded  his  little  autobio- 
graphical sketch,  "the  fairy  uncle  was  missing." 

As  they  sat  in  the  inn  garden,  both  were  thinking 
of  the  approaching  end  of  their  holiday. 

<rT  must  go  back  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "More 
tea?" 

"May  I  come,  too?  and  yes,  please." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  with  crinkled 
eyebrows,  her  fingers  on  the  handle  of  the  teapot. 
Then  she  laughed  and  proceeded  to  fill  his  cup. 

"You're  very  literal,"  she  said,  as  she  handed  it 
to  him. 


198  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Am  I  ?"  he  asked,  selecting  with  great  delibera- 
tion a  lump  of  sugar,  and  holding  it  poised  over  the 
tea  until  it  was  slowly  discoloured. 

"You  would  make  a  very  trying V  she  broke 

off  suddenly  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"But  you  haven't  answered  my  question."  He 
pretended  not  to  notice  either  her  embarrassment 
or  her  flushed  cheeks. 

"Didn't  I?"  Her  gaze  was  fixed  upon  a  black  cat 
that  was  making  a  great  business  of  stalking  a 
sparrow. 

"You're  merely  trying  to  gain  tune." 

"Am  I?" 

"You  know  you  are." 

"Why  should  I  want  to  gain  time?"  Her  gaze 
was  still  on  the  black  cat  which,  having  raised  its 
bird  when  fully  four  yards  away,  was  looking  about 
expectantly  like  Elijah  in  the  desert — for  more  birds. 
"Why  should  I  want  to  gain  time?"  she  repeated  as 
Beresford  remained  silent.  She  still  avoided  his 
eyes. 

"Possibly  to  spare  my  feelings,"  he  replied, 
watching  her  closely. 

"Or  save  my  reputation,"  she  retorted. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"What,  my  reputation?"  She  stole  a  glance  at 
him;  but  finding  his  gaze  upon  her  dropped  her  eyes 
instantly. 

"No,  the  situation." 

Again  she  was  looking  at  the  black  cat. 


THE  DANGER  LINE  199 

<cYou  have  compromised  me  most  horribly  at  the 
hotel,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

With  great  deliberation  Beresford  rose  and 
walking  over  to  where  the  black  cat  was  striving  to 
return  to  the  primitive  bird-stalking  ways  of  its 
progenitors,  sent  it  clambering  up  the  ivy  and  over 
the  wall  by  the  simple  process  of  making  a  wild  dive 
towards  it.  With  equal  deliberation  he  returned  to 
his  seat  and,  catching  Lola's  puzzled  gaze,  smiled. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  she  enquired. 

"I  resent  all  rivals  to  your  attention,  be  they  the 
Thirty-Nine  Articles  or  one  solitary  black  cat,"  he 
replied,  offering  her  a  cigarette. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  proceeded  to  light 
one  himself. 

"You  are  absurd,"  she  laughed  a  little  self- 
consciously. 

"If  your  finances  were  reduced  to  the  equivalent 
of  about  two  weeks  of  ease  and  pleasure,"  he  replied, 
"you,  too,  would  be  inclined  to  husband  your 
resources." 

"Am  I  a  resource?"  she  flashed,  then  seeing  him 
smile  and,  realising  the  implication,  she  began  to 
search  nervously  in  her  bag. 

"It's  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  an  absurd  dab  of 
cambric  that  lay  on  the  table  beside  her. 

She  loolced  up  and,  meeting  his  eyes,  laughed. 

"I  think  it  will  be  better  not,"  she  said,  toying 
with  her  handkerchief. 

"To  be  a  resource?"  he  queried. 


200  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Of  course  not,"  she  laughed.  "I  was  answering 
your  question." 

"Which  one?" 

"How  trying  you  are,  and  it's  so  hot,"  she 
protested,  fanning  herself  with  her  handkerchief. 
"The  one  about  returning  to  London,  of  course. 
Besides,"  she  added  with  feminine  inconsistency, 
"the  doctor  ordered  you  to  stay  here." 

"Not  indefinitely,"  he  objected. 

"But  you've  only  been  here  a  week." 

"This  is  the  ninth  day  of  my  wonder." 

"And  consequently  the  last." 

He  looked  across  at  her,  startled  in  spite  of  him- 
self, as  she  sat,  looking  deliciously  cool  and  provok- 
ingly  pretty,  in  a  little  toque  of  brilliant  colouring 
above  an  oatmeal-coloured  frock. 

"Somewhere  in  the  lap  of  the  ages  I  shall  rest 
the  better  for  the  knowledge  that  once  in  my  life  I 
"had  a  good  time."  He  smiled  at  her  gravely. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him 

with  startled  eyes.  "It  sounds  so — so "  she 

broke  off,  unable  to  find  a  simile. 

For  fully  a  minute  he  continued  to  smoke  without 
speaking.  At  length  he  said,  disregarding  her 
question — 

"Hasn't  it  been  said  that  we  never  know  when  we 
are  happy?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  have  been  happy  for  the  last  few  days,"  he 
continued,  "and  I  have  been  conscious  of  it  every 
moment  of  the  time." 


THE  DANGER  LINE  201 

She  made  no  reply;  but  continued  to  toy  with  the 
lace  of  her  handkerchief. 

"Rain-Girl,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  have  been  a 

ripping  pal,  I "  he  broke  off  as  she  looked  up. 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice,  none  too  well  under  control. 

"Like  what?" 

"About — about Oh,  I'm  ridiculous!"  making 

a  vicious  little  dab  with  her  handkerchief  at  a  tear 
that  toppled  over  the  brim,  and  ran  down  the  side 
of  her  nose.  "You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said 
accusingly  a  moment  later. 

"Do  I?"  he  asked  calmly. 

"Yes,  now,  don't  you?  Oh,  please,  please  try  and 
be  different."  There  was  eager  pleading  in  her 
voice. 

"There's  the  leopard  and  his  spots,"  he  suggested 
smiling. 

"Please  be  serious,  Mr.  Beresford." 

The  use  of  his  name  seemed  to  bring  him  back 
from  the  shadowed  pathway  of  his  thoughts. 

"I  can't  be  serious  if  you  are  formal  and  call  me 
'Mr.  Beresford'  in  that  reproachful  way."  His  eyes 
challenged,  "It  makes  me  feel  like  the  Fortieth 
Article." 

She  laughed. 

"I  would  sooner  fall  back  into  the  nameless  void 
of  the  last  eight  days  than  be  'Mr.  Beresford'  on  the 
ninth." 


202  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Well,  will  you?"  She  looked  at  him,  her  head 
slightly  on  one  side. 

"Will  I  what?"  he  queried. 

"You  really  are  the  most  provoking  person  I  ever 
met,"  she  cried  in  mock  despair. 

"That's  exactly  what  Aunt  Caroline  says,"  he 
remarked  easily.  "Only  she  puts  it  more  pithily. 
She  just  says,  'Richard,  you're  a  fool.' ' 

"But  you  are  rather  trying,  you  know,  aren't 
you?"  She  looked  at  him  smilingly,  her  head  still 
a  little  on  one  side,  as  if  desirous  of  coaxing  from 
him  the  admission. 

"And  if  she  gets  still  further  exasperated,"  he 
continued,  "she  adds,  'You  always  were  a  fool.' 
My  folly  has  become  something  of  a  family  tradi- 
tion. Even  Drew  frankly  confesses  that  I'm  a  fooLv 
although,  out  of  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  he  modL 
fies  it  somewhat  by  adding  that  he  regards  me  as  a 
pleasant  sort  of  fool." 

"I  wish  I  knew  when  you  were  serious."  She  re- 
garded him  with  a  comical  expression  of  uncertainty 
on  her  face. 

"Never,  if  I  can  help  it;"  then  suddenly  leaning 
towards  her,  he  said,  "Yes,  I'll  be  serious  now. 
I'm  serious  when  I  tell  you  that  I've  been  happier 
during  the  last  nine  days  than  in  all  the  rest  of  my 
life  before.  I'm  serious  when  I  tell  you  how  I  value 
your  comradeship,"  his  voice  shook  a  little.  "I'm 
serious  when  I  tell  you  that  it  has  meant  a  lot  to 
me  to  be  taken  on  trust,  as  you  have  taken  me.  You 
have  been  splendid,  Rain-Girl,  more  splendid  than 


THE  DANGER  LINE  203 

I  thought  it  possible  for  any  woman  to  be.  You 
are  just  wonderful." 

He  smiled  right  into  her  eyes,  and  she  looked 
down  quickly. 

"I've  finished  now,"  he  said  lightly.  "I'm  not 
often " 

"Please  don't."  The  words  came  from  her  lips 
almost  in  a  sob. 

"I'm  sorry."  He  leaned  across  the  table,  and 
for  a  moment  laid  his  hand  on  hers.  "What  is  the 
matter?" 

"Oh,  I'm  just  silly,  that's  all,"  she  cried,  jumping 
up.  "Why,  there's  the  kitten  back,"  and  she 
pointed  with  her  parasol  to  where  the  black  cat  was 
once  more  engaged  in  the  everlasting  self-deception 
that  she  was  a  great  hunter  of  birds. 

"Now  let's  go,"  she  cried  gaily,  moving  towards 
the  gate. 

They  drove  back  to  Folkestone  in  silence,  both 
conscious  of  disappointment,  Beresford  with  him- 
self for  having  even  momentarily  forsaken  his  en- 
trenched position  of  reserve;  Lola  with  something 
that  she  was  unable  to  define. 

"And  I'm  not  to  receive  an  answer  to  my  ques- 
tion?" he  enquired  quizzically  as  he  handed  her  out 
of  the  car  at  the  entrance  of  the  Imperial. 

"I'll  tell  you  after  dinner,"  she  smiled,  "whilst 
we  are  walking  on  the  Leas.  There  will  be  a  glo- 
rious moon  to-night,"  she  added  as,  with  a  nod, 
she  left  him  with  the  conviction  that  the  afternoon 


204  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

would  in  all  probability  prove  as  nothing  to  the 
evening. 

As  he  went  up  to  his  room  to  dress,  he  decided 
that  he  would  take  no  wine  at  dinner. 


As  Beresford  entered  the  dining-room  that  eve- 
ning, Mr.  Byles  was  hovering  about,  obviously  wait- 
ing for  Lola  to  make  her  appearance,  he  decided. 
To  his  surprise,  however,  the  major-domo  ap- 
proached him  smiling  and  rubbing  his  hands. 

"I've  taken  the  liberty  of  using  your  table  this 
evening,  sir,  as  you  are  dining  with  Miss  Craven," 
he  said  in  the  mellow,  unctuous  tone  that  he  had 
adopted  to  Beresford  since  their  little  passage  at 
arms  over  Mr.  Montagu  Gordon,  whose  Scottish 
name  found  so  startling  a  contradiction  in  his  nose. 

Thrilled  at  the  prospect  of  a  tete-a-tete  with 
Lola,  Beresford  nodded  his  acquiescence  and,  with 
an  indifference  he  was  far  from  feeling,  walked  over 
to  her  table  and  took  the  seat  opposite  that  she 
usually  occupied.  He  was  conscious  that  every  eye 
in  the  room  was  upon  him,  particularly  the  femi- 
nine eyes.  Why  hadn't  she  fold  him  that  he  was 
to  dine  with  her  this  evening?  Possibly  it  was  a 
sudden  whim.  He  was  elated  at  the  prospect.  His 
previous  qualms  vanished.  Nothing  mattered  now. 
There  was  just  this  delirious  happiness,  and  then — 
the  deluge.  What  of  it?  It  was  wonderful  to  be 
alive  1 


THE  DANGER  LINE  205 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the  sight  of 
Lola  approaching,  conducted  by  the  inevitable  Mr. 
Byles.  She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  black  frock 
with  a  bunch  of  red  roses  at  her  waist.  With  a 
thrill  he  told  himself  that  they  were  those  he  had 
sent  her  on  the  previous  day. 

"What  do  you  think  of  me?"  she  enquired  when 
Mr.  Byles  had  taken  a  reluctant  departure,  having 
assured  himself  that  everything  was  as  it  should  be. 

"Is  it  permitted  to  say?"  asked  Beresford. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  in  a  mad  mood  to-night,"  she 
cried  as  she  unfolded  her  napkin. 

"And  I  am  the  sauce  that  is  served  with  your 
madness?"  he  questioned. 

She  laughed. 

"And  you?"  she  demanded. 

"More  sober  than  usual,"  he  replied  with  a  smile. 

She  made  a  little  moue. 

"You  see  it  will  preserve  the  Aristotelean  mean," 
he  continued,  as  he  helped  himself  to  hors  d'oeirvres. 

"The  Aristotelean  what?"  she  questioned,  look- 
ing up  from  a  sardine  she  was  dissecting,  with  great 
daintiness,  he  thought. 

"The  'via  media." 

"Would  you  mind  coming  down  to  my  intellec- 
tual level?"  she  asked  demurely. 

Beresford  laughed. 

"Well?"  she  said,  "I'm  waiting." 

"For?" 

"You  to  come  down  from  the  classical  clouds." 

"Shall   we    say   striking   the    balance,"    he    sug- 


206  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

gested,  "the  middle  way  between  your  too  much  and 
my  too  little?" 

"Am  I  too  much?"  she  queried. 

"For  the  women,  yes,  for  the  men,  no.  You  see 
there  are  thirty-nine  of  them."  Then  seeing  a 
shadow  pass  across  her  face,  he  hastened  to  add,  "I 
didn't  mean  that  about  the  women,"  he  hesitated: 
"May  I  say  it?" 

She  nodded. 

"You  look  so  radiant  and  happy,"  he  added  half 
to  himself,  "that "  he  stopped  dead. 

"More  wonderful  than  on  a  gate?"  she  chal- 
lenged. 

"Nothing  could  be  more  wonderful  than  that," 
he  said  gravely,  declining  the  wine  that  Mr.  Byles 
was  about  to  pour  into  his  glass. 

Seeing  him  refuse  she  looked  across  with  elevated 
brows.  He  removed  the  inhibition,  Mr.  Byles  de- 
pressed the  neck  of  the  bottle  and  the  wine  creamed 
into  the  glass. 

"Why?"  she  queried,  nodding  at  his  wine  glass. 

"Shall  we  say  to  preserve  the  Aristotelean  mean?" 
he  questioned  quizzically. 

Again  she  made  that  intimate  little  moue  that 
set  his  pulses  throbbing. 

"I'm  in  a  mad  mood  to-night,"  she  cried  again. 

"You've  already  taken  me  into  your  confidence 
on  that  point." 

"Have  I?" 

"It's  probably  due  to  a  sense  of  sex  isolation." 
He  looked  at  her  mischievously  over  his  soup  spoon. 


THE  DANGER  LINE  207 

"A  sense  of ?" 

"Every  woman  in  the  room  disapproves  of  you," 
he  said.  "In  other  words,  you  are  in  a  state  of 
splendid  sex  isolation,  feminine  sex  that  is." 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  laughed. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  continued  Beresford,  "the 
male  sex  is  with  you  to  a  man.  That  merely  ag- 
gravates the  situation." 

For  some  minutes  they  ate  in  silence. 

"If  I  were  at  the  evening  of  the  ninth  day  of  my 
only  wonder "  She  paused  to  see  if  he  under- 
stood. 

"I  think  I  follow  you  through  the  labyrinth,"  he 
smiled. 

"I  should  be  more  excited,"  she  concluded  a  lit- 
tle weakly. 

"More  excited  than  what?"  he  asked  mystified. 

"Than  you  are."     Her  eyes  challenged  him. 

"Unless  you  immediately  withdraw  that  remark," 
he  said  warningly,  "I  shall  insist  on  your  feeling  my 
pulse." 

T<I  withdraw,"  she  added  hastily.  "I'm  so  glad 
I'm  not  a  cow,"  she  cried  presently,  as  with  a  sigh 
she  placed  her  knife  and  fork  at  the  "all  clear" 
angle. 

"So  am  I,"  he  said  quietly. 

"So  are  you!"  she  repeated  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression. 

"Glad  that  you  are  not  a  cow,"  he  explained. 

"Why?"  she  challenged. 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  should  only 


208  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

be  able  to  rub  your  nose,  and  you  would  soon  get 
tired  of  that." 

"How  absurd  you  are,"  she  cried.  "I  certainly 
should  get  tired  of  it.  Besides,"  she  added  incon- 
sequently,  "you  would  rub  the  powder  off." 

"But  it  was  the  cow's  nose." 

"You  said  my  nose." 

"Temporarily  leaving  the  question  of  whose  nose 
for  a  later  discussion,"  he  said,  "may  I  ask  why 
this  expression  of  satisfaction  at  the  august  decrees 
of  Providence." 

"It  would  be  so  monotonous,"  she  objected. 

"But  I  take  it  that  even  cows  have  their  mo- 
ments," he  suggested. 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand,"  she  cried  with  mock 
impatience. 

"I  think  I  do,"  he  said  quietly.  "But  it  has  been 
better  said  elsewhere,  has  it  not?" 

"Elsewhere?" 

"  'I  thank  Thee  that  I  am  not  as  other  men  are,' ' 
he  quoted,  and  then  added,  "for  'other  men,'  how- 
ever, read  'cows.' ' 

"Oh!"  There  was  consternation  in  her  voice. 
"Did  it  sound  like  that?  How  dreadful." 

"You  have  every  justification." 

"Please  don't." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  he  said,  recognising  the  genu- 
ine entreaty  in  her  voice.  "Before  coffee  comes  I 
want  you  to  drink  a  toast  with  me." 

"A  toast?"  she  repeated,  her  eyes  sparkling. 
"Oh,  please  tell  me  what  it  is." 


THE  DANGER  LINE  209 

"Otherwise  you  could  not  drink  it." 

"Pleeeeease,"  she  entreated. 

"It  is  to  a  certain  gate  on  a  Surrey  high-road," 
he  said  gravely,  raising  his  glass. 

"Oh 1"  There  was  disappointment  in  her 

voice.  Then  with  a  laugh  she  raised  her  glass  and 
drank. 

Later,  as  they  were  about  to  rise  from  the  table 
Beresford  said: 

"But  I  haven't  yet  thanked  you  for  asking  me  to 
dinner." 

"I  didn't  ask  you,"  she  said  rising  and  picking 
up  her  handkerchief.  "I  instructed  Byles  to  put  you 
here." 

He  bowed  humbly.  "May  I  ask  why?"  he  en- 
quired. 

"Because  it's  the  ninth  day  of  your  wonder,  and 
now  I'll  go  and  get  my  cloak,"  and  she  led  the  way 
out  of  the  dining-room,  Beresford  following,  ex- 
hilarated by  the  sensation  her  every  movement 
seemed  to  create  among  the  other  guests. 


The  moon  had  not  yet  risen.  There  was  no 
wind ;  the  night  was  very  still.  Occasionally  a  shout 
or  a  laugh  would  stab  the  oppressive  silence,  seem- 
ing to  add  to  its  density.  Here  and  there  a  sudden 
point  of  flame  showed  the  whereabouts  of  some  man 
lighting  a  cigarette  or  pipe. 


210  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"You  haven't  yet  answered  my  question  about 
to-morrow,"  said  Beresford. 

She  did  not  reply.  After  fully  three  minutes'  si- 
lence he  reminded  her  that  he  was  still  waiting. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  with  the  air  of  one  col- 
lecting her  thoughts.  "You  see "  she  hesi- 
tated. 

"Your  reputation,"  he  queried. 

She  nodded. 

"But "  he  began. 

"And  then  it's  also  the  tenth  day,"  she  said  mis- 
chievously. 

"Please  let  me  arrange  everything,"  he  said  with 
the  air  of  a  boy  asking  to  be  allowed  to  handle  a 
gun. 

"Very  well,"  she  sighed.  "My  reputation  be  on 
your  head." 

"And  I  may  arrange  the  time  of  the  train  and 
everything?" 

Again  she  nodded,  then  a  moment  after  said: 

"You  have  me  at  a  disadvantage.  I  can't  argue 
on  such  a  night.  Now  let's  wait  and  watch  for  the 
moon."  They  were  sitting  on  their  favourite  seat 
facing  the  sea.  "I  don't  want  to  talk.  Oh,  that 
was  terribly  rude,"  she  added;  "but  you  understand, 
don't  you?" 

For  answer  Beresford  touched  her  hand,  then 
withdrew  his  quickly. 

In  silence  they  sat  watching  a  patch  on  the  hori- 
zon faintly  flushed  with  yellow.  Presently  above 
the  cloud  of  mist  there  slowly  rose  a  dull  globe  of 


THE  DANGER  LINE  211 

orange  that  began  laboriously  to  climb  the  sky,  heavy 
as  if  with  weeping. 

"It  looks  as  if  it  were  afraid  of  something  that 
it  knows  it  will  see,"  said  'Lola  in  an  awed  voice. 

Beresford  felt  her  arm  touch  his  shoulder.  Was 
it  accidental?  he  asked  himself.  With  a  feeling 
of  exaltation  he  noticed  that  she  did  not  withdraw. 
He  made  a  slight  movement,  severing  the  contact  as 
if  by  accident.  He  waited  breathlessly.  Yes,  her 
arm  had  touched  his  shoulder  again.  She — 
she 

Something  wild  and  primitive  seemed  to  spring 
into  being  within  him.  Something  of  the  age  when 
men  fought  for  their  women  and  carried  them  off 
by  brute  force.  Why  did  he  not  carry  off  this  girl? 
Why  was  she  sitting  there  beside  him  if  she  were 
not  prepared  to  be  carried  off?  Why  did  he  not 
clasp  her  to  him  and  pour  incoherent  words  into  her 
ears,  smothering  her  with  kisses,  inhaling  the  sweet 
perfume  of  her?  Women  such  as  she  were  won  in 
a  riot  of  physical  mastery.  She  was  no  mate  for 
the  drawing-room  wooer.  No  one  would  under- 
stand her  as  he  had  understood  her.  Other  men 
would 

Suddenly  there  came  the  thought  of  the  Thirty- 
Nine  Articles  and  he  laughed,  a  short,  odd  laugh, 
which  seemed  to  strike  the  soft  night  air  like  a  dis- 
cord. She  started,  turning  to  him  with  eyes  dilated 
a  little. 

"What — what  is  the  matter?"  she  enquired  with 
a  quick  indrawing  of  breath. 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles,"  he 
replied  in  a  voice  that  he  failed  to  recognise  as  his 
own.  "Shall  we  go  back?" 

Without  a  word  she  rose  and  they  walked  towards 
the  Imperial.  Was  it  his  imagination,  or  did  her 
steps  really  lag?  She  appeared  listless,  so  differ- 
ent from  what  she  had  been  at  dinner.  It  was  ab- 
surd. He  was  in  a  mood  to  attribute  all  sorts  of 
causes  to  simple  actions.  In  suggesting  that  they 
should  return  to  the  hotel  he  had  deliberately 
stabbed  himself,  and  the  pain  of  it  maddened  him. 
Still  the  Challice  pride  had  triumphed. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  listlessness  with 
which  Lola  climbed  the  steps  to  the  hotel.  At  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  she  turned,  and  in  a  tired  voice 
bade  him  good-night — where  was  that  little  inti- 
mate smile  that  he  had  come  to  regard  as  his  own 
most  cherished  possession? 

He  went  out  once  more  into  the  night  and  walked 
and  walked  and  walked,  returning  when  the  birds 
were  twittering  their  greetings  to  the  dawn. 


CHAPTER  XV 

LONDON  AND  LORD  DREWITT 

HOW  am  I  going  to  explain  you  to  auntie?" 
"By  Jove!     I  hadn't  thought  of  that." 
Beresford's  look  of  consternation  was 
so  obvious  that  Lola  laughed. 

"I  might  add,"  she  proceeded  mischievously, 
"how  am  I  to  explain  travelling  back  to  London 
with  you  in  a  reserved  compartment?  It's — 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "I  was  thinking  of  that,  only 
I  didn't  say  it." 

"Didn't  say  what?"  she  asked,  genuinely  puz- 
zled. 

"What  it  was  like." 

Her  face  crimsoned  and,  turning  her  head  aside, 
she  became  engrossed  in  the  landscape  streaming 
past  the  window. 

"You  haven't  told  me  what  I'm  to  say  to  auntie," 
she  said  presently,  still  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"Couldn't  you  say  that  I  saved  your  life  whilst 
bathing,  or  plucked  you  from  a  burning  hotel,  or 
that  you  ran  over  me  when  motoring,  or " 

"That  I  came  across  you  in  a  lunatic  asylum," 
she  suggested  scathingly.  "If  I  had  been  nearly 

213 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

drowned  the  newspapers  would  have  got  hold  of  it, 
and  the  Imperial  couldn't  have  been  burned  by 
stealth,  and  if " 

"Enough,"  he  laughed.  "I  apologise.  Why  not 
tell  her  the  truth?" 

"The  truth?"  she  queried. 

"I  grant  it's  the  last  thing  that  one  usually  thinks 
of.  Say  that  I  fainted  in  your  arms  in  the  dining- 
room  of  the  Imperial  and " 

"Oh,  don't  be  ridiculous,"  she  laughed.  "Seri- 
ously though,"  she  added  a  moment  later.  "I  thmk 
it  would  be  the  best  plan." 

"To  say  that  I  fainted  in  your  arms?"  he  asked 
innocently. 

"That  going  to  the  assistance  of  a  fellow-guest 
^rho  had  fainted,"  she  continued  severely,  "I  found 
that  he  was  a  cousin  of  Lord  Drewitt." 

"And  nephew  of  Lady  Drewitt,  don't  forget 
that,"  he  said  hastily,  "or  Aunt  Caroline  would  never 
forgive  you." 

"I'll  remember,"  she  nodded. 

"And  having  dragged  me  back  resisting  to  this 
world,"  he  continued,  "you  might  add  that  you 
neglected  me  in  a  land  where  foster-mothers  were 
not." 

"Whatever  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Only  of  your  neglect  during  the  early  days  of 
my  convalescence." 

"Suppose  it  got  to  be  known  that  you  and  I  were 
travelling  up  to  London  in  a  reserved  compart- 


LONDON  AND  LORD  DREWITT         215 

ment?"  Lola  looked  at  him.  "What  would  peo- 
ple say?"  she  demanded  reproachfully. 

"The  worst  without  a  doubt;  but  what  they  would 
say  would  be  as  nothing  to  what  they  would  think. 
It's  not  really  reserved,  you  know,"  he  added, 
"merely  the  result  of  the  constitutional  venality  of 
railway  guards." 

"But  you  don't  consider  my  reputation." 

"You  have  allowed  me  to  consider  little  else  for 
the  last  nine  days,"  was  the  calm  retort. 

"Well,  you  must  come  to  lunch  to-morrow  and 
explain  to  auntie,  and  bring  Lord  Drewitt.  We'll 
invite  Mr.  Deacon  Quelch.  He's  auntie's  pet  me- 
dium. It's  so  funny  to  see  Lord  Drewitt  look  at 
him."  She  laughed  at  the  recollection. 

"I  think  Drew  mentioned  that  he  had  met  Mr. 
Quelch,"  said  Beresford  drily,  recollecting  Drewitt's 
description. 

"Now  you  won't  forget,"  she  said.  "Two 
o'clock  to-morrow,  and  above  all  discretion." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  likely  to  forget?"  he  asked 
pointedly,  "the  luncheon,  I  mean." 

"You  might  faint  again,"  she  suggested  de- 
murely, "or — or " 

"Or  what?" 

"Or  go  away,"  she  glanced  at  him  swiftly. 

Somehow  her  simple  remark  seemed  to  bring  back 
to  him  the  full  realisation  of  his  position.  A  week 

or  two  and  he  would  be  faced  by He  shook 

himself  as  if  to  drive  away  the  thought. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  she  asked  curiously. 


216  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Why  did  I  do  what?" 

"Shake  yourself  like— like " 

"A  little  devil  had  settled  on  my  shoulder  and 
was  whispering  unpleasant  things  into  my  ear,"  he 
explained  with  a  smile. 

"You  are  funny."  She  looked  at  him  apprais- 
ingly.  "You  are  funnier  than  any  one  I  have  ever 
known." 

"Pour  s' amuse  la  reine,"  he  smiled. 

"I  wish  I  understood  you,"  she  said,  still  regard- 
ing him  with  gravely  intent  eyes. 

"And  you  think  I  should  wear  better  understood?" 
he  queried. 

"You're  not  like " 

"The  other  Thirty-Nine  Articles.  Grtce  a 
Dieu!"  he  laughed. 

"I  can  see  it's  no  use,"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 
"You  won't  be  serious." 

"I  dare  not." 

The  tone  rather  than  the  words  caused  her  to  look 
at  him  quickly;  but  he  was  smiling. 

The  train  was  now  rushing  into  bricks  and  mor- 
tar. To  Beresford  the  greyness  of  the  unending 
lines  seemed  reflected  in  his  own  thoughts.  It  was 
getting  very  near  the  end — the  end  with  a  capital 
"E."  Still  it  had  been  wonderful,  and  he  was  not 
going  to  complain. 

Nothing  more  was  said  until  they  drew  into  Vic- 
toria Station,  and  then  only  the  commonplaces  about 
luggage  and  a  taxi.  He  secured  a  porter,  retrieved 
Lola's  luggage  from  the  avalanche  that  was  de- 


LONDON  AND  LORD  DREWITT         217 

scending  upon  the  platform  from  the  guard's  van, 
and  finally  secured  a  taxi. 

"Thank  you  very  much  indeed  for — for  every- 
thing," she  said  with  a  smile  as  she  held  out  her 
hand. 

"You  will  let  me  see  you  sometimes?"  he  pleaded. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  going  away,"  she  said 
smiling. 

"Oh,  'the  bird  of  time  has  still  a  little  way  to  flut- 
ter,' "  he  quoted  as  the  taxi  jerked  forward. 

"To-morrow  then,"  she  cried. 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  turned  to  the  business  of 
securing  his  own  luggage  and  another  taxi. 

At  the  Ritz-Carlton  he  found  that  the  letter  he 
had  sent  from  Folkestone  cancelling  his  room  had 
miscarried,  involving  a  still  further  drain  into  his 
already  sadly  depleted  capital.  These  gradual  in- 
roads into  the  limited  balance  of  his  days  were  be- 
coming disturbing. 

By  six  o'clock  he  had  discovered  and  taken  a 
small  furnished  bachelor  flat  in  St.  James's  Man- 
sions, Jermyn  Street,  had  transferred  there  from  the 
Ritz-Carlton,  and  was  on  his  way  to  call  upon 
Drewitt. 

As  he  was  shown  in  by  Hoskins,  he  found  Ed- 
ward Seymour  just  about  to  take  his  departure. 

"Behold,  my  dear  Teddy,"  said  Drewitt,  lazily 
waving  his  hand  towards  Beresford,  "the  personi- 
fication of  a  spirit  of  romance  that  no  Cervantes 
could  have  killed." 

Edward    Seymour    looked    from    Beresford    to 


218  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Drewitt,  blinking  his  eyes  like  a  puzzled  owl,  then 
feeling  that  the  surest  defence  lay  in  offence,  he 
turned  to  Beresford. 

"I  suppose  you've  been  spending  money  again," 
he  sneered. 

"No,  Edward,"  said  Beresford  with  a  smile,  he 
felt  he  could  afford  to  smile  at  everything  to-day, 
"as  a  matter  of  fact  the  taxi-man  brought  me  for 
nothing." 

"Have  you  ever  read  Don  Qinxote?"  enquired 
Drewitt  of  Edward  Seymour. 

He  shook  his  sandy  little  head.  He  always  felt 
at  a  disadvantage  with  Drewitt. 

"That  would  explain  my  allusion,  Teddy.  Now 
you  must  run  away  to  Cecily,  or  she  will  think  you 
are  lost.  Give  her  my  love,  and  tell  her  I  shall  dis- 
pute the  will."  The  smile  which  accompanied 
these  words  robbed  them  of  some  of  their  sting. 

"I'll  tell  Aunt  Caroline  that  you're  back,"  said 
Edward  Seymour  to  Beresford  as  he  walked  toward* 
the  door. 

Beresford  nodded  as  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

"That's  just  the  sort  of  thing  that  dear,  amiable, 
sweet-natured  little  Teddy  would  do,"  said  Drewitt. 
"Richard,  before  you  plunge  me  into  the  mael- 
strom of  your  adventures,  I  beseech  you  to  ring  for 
Coffee." 

Beresford  did  so. 

"No,  Richard,  not  a  word  until  I  am  fortified. 
Three  times  this  week  have  I  seen  the  aunt,  twice 
been  buttonholed  by  Sir  Redman  Bight,  the  club 


LONDON  AND  LORD  DREWITT         219 

bore,  in  addition  to  being  invited  to  join  the  Board 
of  the  Auto-Balloon  Bus  and  Tram.  Car  Syndicate, 
I  think  that  was  its  name.  It  has  really  been  most 
exhausting.  By  the  way,  did  you  ring  twice?" 

Beresford  nodded. 

"Thank  you  for  remembering  that  twice  means 
coffee.  You  might  have  rung  three  times,  which 
means ;  but  never  mind,  that  is  a  purely  domes- 
tic matter." 

After  a  pause  Drewitt  continued,  "London's  ex- 
actly where  you  left  it,  Richard,  incidentally  where 
Lola  Craven  left  it  also.  She  has  not  been  heard  of 
or  seen  since  that  breakfast.  Heavens !  that  break- 
fast— and — and  her  aunt.  Her  conversation  made 
me  feel  like  rose-blight  subjected  to  a  patent  spray- 
exterminator.  I  have  never  encountered  anything 
like  it."  A  look  of  complete  misery  overspread 
Drewitt's  features.  "I'm  positively  afraid  to  en- 
quire of  Hoskins  how  much  I  owe  for  coffee.  It 
must  be  a  prodigious  amount.  Ah!  here  it  is,"  as 
Hoskins  entered  with  a  tray  and  proceeded  to  fill 
the  two  white  and  gold  cups,  which  he  handed  to 
Drewitt  and  Beresford. 

"What  I  most  admire  about  you,  Richard,  is  your 
capacity  for  the  unexpected.  You  leave  London  for 
all  the  discomforts  of  the  country-side,  from  damp 
beds  to  mosquitoes,  your  loving  family  hears  noth- 
ing of  you  for  eight  weeks,  then  suddenly  you  reap- 
pear, clothed  in  a  manner  that  is  a  direct  challenge 
to  Solomon — the  king,  I  mean,  not  the  Piccadilly 
florist.  You  then  proceed  to  behave  in  a  manner 


220  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

that  is  eccentric,  even  for  you,  Richard,  who  in  your- 
self are  a  sort  of  mental  jazz-band.  Now  for  your 
story,  I  can  bear  it." 

In  a  few  words  Beresford  told  of  the  "acciden- 
tal" meeting  with  Lola  Craven  at  the  Imperial,  and 
that  he  had  accepted  an  invitation  for  Drewitt  and 
himself  to  lunch  on  the  morrow.  He  refrained 
from  mentioning  that  Mr.  Quelch  would  be  present. 

"Impossible,  quite  impossible.  To-morrow  I  am 
lunching  with — let  me  see,  who  is  it?  I  know  it's 
somebody  uncomfortable,  because  I  have  been  look- 
ing forward  to  it  with  dread." 

"To-morrow  you  are  lunching  with  us,  Drew," 
said  Beresford  quietly. 

"Since  you  put  it  so  persuasively,"  he  said  drily, 
"I  cannot  of  course  refuse.  Perhaps  you  will  ring 
the  bell  once,  that  means  that  Hoskins'  presence  is 
required." 

Beresford  did  so,  and  a  moment  later  Hoskins 
entered. 

"Hoskins,"  said  Drewitt,  "I  am  due  to  lunch  with 
somebody  or  other  to-morrow.  It  doesn't  matter 
with  whom.  Just  say  that — that — well,  just  make 
my  excuses  in  your  usual  inimitable  manner." 

Hoskins  bowed  and  withdrew. 

"Richard,  you  are  keeping  something  from  me." 
Drewitt  reached  for  a  cigarette  and  proceeded  to 
light  it. 

"And  you,  with  your  customary  discretion,  will 
not  press  the  matter,"  said  Beresford  with  a  smile. 

"Perhaps  you're  right.     When  a  man  makes  a 


LONDON  AND  LORD  DREWITT 

peculiarly  transparent  sort  of  ass  of  himself,  he  is 
usually  too  conscious  of  the  fact  to  require  outside 
comment.  By  the  way,  the  Aunt  has  been  enquir- 
ing about  you." 

"About  me?"  queried  Beresford. 

"Yes.  I  think  I  unduly  alarmed  her  by  an  indis- 
creet reference  to  a  possible  inquest  upon  your  re- 
mains. Perhaps  one  or  two  ill-advised  references 
to  the  cheerless  and  unhygienic  qualities  of  coroners' 
courts  were  responsible.  What  she  will  say  when 
she  learns  that  you  have  been  cutting  the  ground 
from  under  my  feet  at  Folkestone,  I  haven't  the  most 
remote  idea." 

"Don't  be  an  ass." 

"Richard,"  continued  Drewitt,  "I  have  a  fore- 
boding. Like  the  estimable  Cassandra,  I  feel  a 
perfect  tenement-house  of  foreboding.  With  your 
romantic  disposition,  Lola  Craven's  fascinating  per- 
sonality and  your  high  sense  of  honour  and  integ- 
rity, we  have  a  situation  that  Sophocles  would  have 
welcomed  with  tears  of  artistic  joy." 

"You  are  talking  a  most  awful  lot  of  rot,  Drew." 
Beresford  was  conscious  of  a  surly  note  in  his  voice. 

"How  much  money  have  you  got?"  Drewitt 
leaned  forward  slightly,  the  bantering  note  had  dis- 
appeared from  his  voice. 

Beresford  looked  across  at  him  curiously. 

"I've  given  up  taking  stock  of  my  resources." 

For  fully  a  minute  there  was  silence,  broken  at 
length  by  Drewitt. 


222  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Richard,  there  are  a  few  hundreds  at  the  bank 
unclaimed  by  my  hysterical  creditors,  if " 

"Thanks,  old  man,"  said  Beresford  quietly  as 
he  rose.  "I  shall  be  all  right,"  and  he  gripped  with 
unusual  warmth  the  hand  that  Drewitt  extended  to 
him. 

"You're  in  the  very  devil  of  a  mess,  Dickie,"  he 
said  quietly.  "I'm  always  here  when  you  want  me." 

Beresford  drove  back  to  Jermyn  Street  to  tele- 
phone to  Lola  that  Drewitt  would  be  able  to  lunch 
on  the  morrow.  He  felt  strangely  lonely  without 
her.  For  the  last  week  he  had  been  constantly  in 
her  company,  and  now  suddenly  she  had  been  lifted 
clean  out  of  his  life.  There  was  the  whole  evening 
to  dispose  of,  and  the  following  morning  until  lunch- 
time.  He  might  go  to  a  theatre,  it  was  true;  but 
what  object  would  there  be  when  his  thoughts  would 
be  elsewhere  than  with  the  performers? 

Arrived  at  Jermyn  Street,  he  got  through  to  the 
Belle  Vue,  and  held  the  line  for  nearly  ten  minutes 
whilst  they  were  searching  for  Lola.  Eventually 
a  message  came  that  she  was  not  to  be  found,  and 
with  a  vicious  jab  he  replaced  the  receiver.  Three 
times  he  rang  her  up,  and  three  times  the  message 
was  the  same.  Finally  he  sat  down  to  write  a  note 
and,  having  spoiled  a  number  of  sheets  of  note- 
paper,  folded  and  placed  in  an  envelope  something 
with  which  he  was  entirely  dissatisfied.  It  was  im- 
possible to  write  to  the  Rain-Girl  with  all  sorts  of 
barriers  and  restraints  intervening. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED 

YOU'RE  just  in  time  to  prevent  Hoskins  from 
undermining     my     taste     in     dress,"     said 
Drewitt,  who,  garbed  in  a  wonderful  silk 
dressing-gown  of  an  eccentric  pattern  of  black  and 
white,  was  lolling  back  in  a  chair. 

Beresford  had  arranged  to  pick  him  up  on  hia 
way  to  keep  the  luncheon  engagement  with  Lola. 

Hoskins  smiled  with  a  deprecating  air  that  plainly 
said,  "You  know  his  lordship's  little  way,  sir!" 

"He  wants  me  to  wear  this  tie,"  holding  out  a 
black  poplin  tie  with  white  spots,  "with  these 
trousers,"  indicating  the  trousers  he  was  wearing, 
black  with  thin  white  perpendicular  lines. 

"Well,  why  not?"  enquired  Beresford. 

"There  are  some  men,"  said  Drewitt,  looking 
reproachfully  at  Beresford,  "so  supremely  oblivious 
of  their  social  obligations  as  to  be  capable  of  wear- 
ing spotted  trousers  with  a  striped  tie.  You  see, 
Hoskins,"  he  continued,  turning  to  his  man,  "I'm  to 
meet  Mr.  Deacon  Quelch,  who  is  psychic.  Now  it's 
impossible  to  tell  what  might  be  the  effect  of  a  sar- 
torial indiscretion  upon  a  highly  psychic  mentality. 
You  follow  me?" 

223 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Not  exactly,  my  lord." 

"There  must  be  much  comfort  in  a  pose,"  said 
Beresford. 

Drewitt  took  a  cigarette  from  the  box,  lit  it, 
smiling  at  his  cousin  over  the  flame. 

"Realities  are  uncomfortable  bedfellows,  Rich- 
ard," he  remarked.  "Have  you  ever  studied  the 
night-side  of  London?" 

"A  bit,"  acknowledged  Beresford. 

"Can  you  imagine  what  it  would  be  on  lemonade 
and  dry  ginger-ale?" 

"So  your  pose  is  to  you  what  alcohol  is  to  vice?" 

"My  finished  demeanour  as  a  man  of  the  world," 
corrected  Drewitt,  "is  to  me  what  drink  is  to  im- 
morality. It  prevents  me  from  getting  tired  of 
myself.  And  now  for  Mr.  Deacon  Quelch."  He 
passed  out  of  the  room,  reappearing  a  few  minutes 
later  ready  for  calling. 

"Now,  Richard,  I  am,  as  good  old  Sir  Thomas 
says,  'ready  to  be  anything  in  the  ecstacy  of  being 
ever.'  I  hope  you  are  always  careful  in  crossing 
the  road,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  hat  and  stick  Hos- 
kins  handed  to  him. 

"Crossing  the  road,  my  lord?" 

"I  mean  that  you  take  no  undue  risks.  Remem- 
ber, Hoskins,  your  life  is  not  your  own.  It  is  in- 
extricably linked  up  with  my  destiny,  the  link  being 
your  coffee.  Now,  Richard,  I  am  at  your  service." 

As  they  were  about  to  enter  the  Belle  Vue,  they 
were  conscious  of  a  strange  figure  just  in  front  of 
them. 


THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED  225 

"Mr.  Deacon  Quelch,"  murmured  Drewitt,  in  a 
low  voice. 

Beresford  nodded,  and  they  entered  just  behind 
Mr.  Quelch. 

As  they  waited  while  their  names  were  taken  up, 
Beresford  and  Drewitt  sat  watching  the  figure  of 
their  fellow-guest.  He  was  a  curiously  furtive-look- 
ing creature,  rather  above  middle  height,  with  bulgy 
boots,  baggy  trousers  and  a  shapeless  frock-coat. 
On  his  head  he  wore  a  top-hat  that  had  worn  itself 
to  a  frenzy  of  despair,  its  glossiness  no  longer 
amenable  to  anything  but  liquid  persuasion.  His  tie 
was  a  voluminous  dab  of  black,  and  his  waistcoat  a 
combination  of  green  and  purple,  with  a  broad, 
black  braid  border.  His  cuffs  started  forward  hys- 
terically from  the  sleeves  of  his  coat,  and  had 
obviously  to  be  kept  in  place  by  the  wrists  being  car- 
ried at  a  definite  angle.  He  looked  hungry  and 
obsequious.  Apparently  he  did  not  remember 
Drewitt,  as  he  made  no  sign  of  recognition. 

A  flurry  of  skirts  and  a  stream  of  talk  announced 
the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Crisp.  Lola  followed  a  few 
paces  behind. 

"Ah !  here  you  are.  All  arrived  together.  Dear 
Mr.  Quelch.  How  charming  of  you  to  come.  Lord 
Drewitt,  and  Mr.  Berry.  Lord  Drewitt,  Mr. 
Deacon  Quelch.  You  ought  to  knov/  each  other. 
How  stupid  of  me,  you've  met."  She  trailed  off 
into  a  string  of  interjections;  Drewitt  and  Beres- 
ford turned  to  greet  Lola,  and  the  party  walked 
towards  the  dining-room. 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Lola's  frock  reminded  Beresford  of  the  dense 
plumes  of  smoke  from  the  chimney  of  a  newly-stoked 
furnace.  A  touch  of  colour  was  supplied  by  a  row 
of  orange  beads  round  her  neck.  Her  movements, 
the  carriage  of  her  head,  her  general  bearing 
were 

"And  how  is  your  chest,  Mr.  Berry?"  Mrs. 
Crisp  suddenly  turned  her  jet  upon  Beresford. 
"Have  you  tried  camphorated-oil?  So  good  for  a 
cold.  I  always  use  it,  and  liquorice  too.  Rubbed  in 
night  and  morning.  Oil,  I  mean,  not  the  liquorice. 
We've  missed  her  so  much,  haven't  we,  Mr.  Quelch. 
Yes,  you  sit  there  and  you  here,  Lord  Drewitt," 
indicating  the  seat  next  to  Lola,  "and  you  next  to 
Lola,  Mr.  Berry." 

"Why  will  people  make  life  ugly  with  camphor, 
eucalyptus  and  peppermint?"  said  Lola  to  Beresford 
with  a  moue  of  disgust. 

"And  flannelette,"  interpolated  Drewitt.  "I  had 
a  great-aunt  who  spent  half  her  money  and  all  her 
time  in  making  flannelette  garments  for  harmless 
negroes.  It's  such  an  impertinence." 

"Are  you  serious?"  asked  Lola,  turning  to  him 
doubtfully. 

"The  negroes  were,"  said  Drewitt.  "I  believe 
those  garments  produced  a  revolution." 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"To  place  flannelette  garments  upon  limbs  that 
hitherto  have  been  gloriously  free  is,"  continued 
Drewitt,  "as  bad  as " 

"I  see,"  she  laughed. 


THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED  227 

Beresford  took  little  part  in  the  conversation.  He 
was  accustomed  to  having  Lola  to  himself,  and 
found  it  difficult  to  reconcile  himself  to  sharing  her 
with  others.  Mrs.  Crisp  fascinated  him.  He  had 
never  met  any  one  of  such  undammable  loquacity. 
Words  streamed  from  her  lips  as  water  from  a  hose. 
A  chance  word  would  send  her  off  at  a  tangent. 
Sometimes  he  found  it  difficult  to  control  his  features 
as,  in  her  haste,  she  occasionally  transposed  the 
initial  letters  of  two  words,  as,  for  instance,  when 
complaining  of  the  off-hand  manner  of  one  of  the 
porters,  instead  of  describing  him  as  she  intended  as 
"nearly  rude,"  she  informed  Drewitt  that  he  was 
"really  nude." 

"You  must  come  to  one  of  our  seances,"  she  cried 
to  Drewitt.  "I've  never  known  any  one  like  Mr. 
Quelch,  so  psychic." 

Drewitt  screwed  his  monocle  into  his  eye  and 
gazed  at  Mr.  Quelch  with  grave  interest,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  specimen  of  some  unknown  fauna.  Mr. 
Quelch  fidgeted  under  the  scrutiny  as,  by  a  dexter- 
ous movement  of  the  backs  of  his  hands,  he  read- 
justed his  cuffs,  which  had  slipped  down. 

"Are  you  interested  in  psychical  research?" 
enquired  Lola,  looking  from  Beresford  to  Drewitt. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Drewitt,  "that  I'm  too  pre- 
occupied with  the  substance  of  this  world  to  have 
time  for  the  shadow  of  the  next." 

"But  think,  Lord  Drewitt,"  cried  Mrs.  Crisp, 
"you  can  talk  to  all  your  friends  who  have  passed 
over.  Only  the  other  night  my  dear  sister  came. 


228  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

She  was  drowned.  It  was  such  a  comfort.  So  fond 
of  the  water.  She  was  quite  a  famous  digh-hiver. 
So  embarrassing,  you  know.  The  costume  I  mean. 
I  should  blush  all  over." 

"I  am  afraid  I  could  not  take  the  risk,"  said 
Drewitt.  "One  is  at  such  disadvantage  with  a  spirit. 
Fortunately  in  this  world  people  have  the  grace  to 
say  behind  your  back  what  a  spirit  would  most  likely 
say  to  your  face." 

Mr.  Quelch  shook  his  head  dolefully,  as  he  laid 
his  black  moustache  affectionately  upon  a  spoonful 
of  white  soup. 

As  Lola  continued  to  chat  with  Drewitt,  Beres- 
ford  found  his  thoughts  slipping  back  to  the  days 
at  Folkestone.  She  seemed  so  different  here  from 
the  gay,  irresponsible  girl  he  had  known  during  the 
last  three  or  four  days  of  their  stay. 

<fSuicide  is  a  harsh  name  for  a  disinclination  to 
wear  something  that  we  have  grown  out  of,"  he 
heard  Drewitt  say. 

He  looked  across.  Drewitt  was  toying  with  a 
saltspoon,  whilst  Lola  was  engaged  in  crumbling  a 
piece  of  bread  between  her  fingers. 

"Such  a  dreadful  thing,  suicide,"  burst  in  Mrs. 
Crisp.  "A  man  died  in  my  bath  at  Brighton.  At 
least,  the  bath  I  used.  Thrut  his  coat  one  morning. 
So  thoughtless  for  others.  Some  people  read  in 
them.  So  bad  for  the  books,  and  they  are  so  cross 
at  the  libraries  if  there  is  a  page  or  two  missing." 
She  turned  to  Mr.  Quelch  and  proceeded  to  spray 
him. 


THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED  229 

"But  surely  you  don't  think  we  have  a  right  to 
take  our  own  lives?"  asked  Lola,  turning  to  Drewitt. 

"If  any  one  gave  you  a  hat  that  didn't  suit  you, 
would  you  wear  it?"  enquired  Drewitt. 

"Noooooo,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 

"Then  why  should  you  continue  to  wear  the 
mantle  of  existence  when  it  doesn't  fit?" 

"But  life  is  so  different,"  she  protested.  "It's  not 
ours  to  dispose  of." 

"Suppose  Richard  put  a  rhinoceros  In  your  bath- 
room, would  you  hesitate  to  have  it  removed  because 
it  was  not  yours  to  dispose  of?"  Drewitt  looked  at 
her  with  a  smile. 

"How  absurd,"  she  laughed. 

"That,"  said  Drewitt,  "is  a  feminine  confession  of 
defeat." 

"Schopenhauer  says  that  when  the  sum  total  of 
misery  exceeds  the  sum  total  of  happiness  suicide  is 
inevitable,"  said  Beresford,  who  had  been  listening 
with  interest  to  Drewitt's  exposition  on  the  ethics 
of  suicide. 

"Never  quote  Schopenhauer  to  a  woman, 
Richard,"  said  Drewitt.  "If  she's  heard  of  him 
she  doesn't  like  him;  if  she  hasn't  heard  of  him  she 
won't  know  whether  he's  a  Bolshevist  or  a  German 
helmet." 

"But,"  said  Beresford,  turning  to  Lola,  "do  you 
mean  that  when  a  man  sees  all  that  he  most  desires 
in  life  quite  out  of  his  reach,  that  he  must  go  on 
making  the  best  of  things?" 


230  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Certainly,"  said  Lola,  with  decision.  "He 
should  try  and  win  what  he  wants,  work  for  it." 

"Do  you  see  that  little  waiter  over  there?"  asked 
Drewitt,  indicating  a  curious  little  man  with  bulging 
eyes  and  a  receding  chin. 

Lola  nodded. 

"Suppose  he  were  to  fall  violently  in  love  with 
you,  Miss  Craven,"  he  continued.  "Suppose  that 
you  became  absolutely  necessary  to  him,  and  inspired 
his  every  thought  and  action.  He  saw  you  in  every 
soup-plate,  you  got  mixed  up  with  the  fish,  flavoured 
the  entree,  crept  into  the  roast.  Suppose  he  were 
prepared  to  become  a  Napoleon  of  waiters  for  your 
sake.  What " 

"Oh!  but  that  is  so  absurd,"  she  laughed. 

"But  just  now  you  said  that  a  man  must  try  and 
win  what  he  wants." 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't  mean "  she  paused. 

"When  you  make  a  statement,"  smiled  Drewitt, 
"you  must  always  be  prepared  to  have  it  carried  to 
its  logical  conclusion.  The  waiter  is  the  logical  con- 
clusion of  your  statement,  that  all  have  a  right  to 
aspire  to  any  and  everything." 

"But  we  have  rather  wandered  away  from  sui- 
cide," suggested  Beresford. 

"On  the  contrary  we  are  now  approaching  it," 
continued  Drewitt.  "The  little  waiter  spends  every 
moment  that  is  not  occupied  in  collecting  tips  in 
showing  his  devotion  to  you,  and  endeavouring  to 
obtain  the  object  of  his  desires,  your  hand,  Miss 


THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED  231 

Craven.  Life  has  ceased  to  mean  anything  to  him 
without  you.  You  follow  me?" 

"I  don't,"  she  confessed.  "I  feel  absolutely 
giddy." 

"There  are  only  two  courses  open  to  the  waiter: 
one  is  to  gain  his  ends,  the  other  is  to  fail  to  gain 
his  ends.  If  he  fails,  then  you  would  deny  him  the 
soothing  alternative  of  suicide." 

Beresford  waited  eagerly  for  her  reply;  but  Mrs. 
Crisp  burst  in  upon  them. 

"I've  just  remembered,"  she  cried;  "it  was  at 
Bournemouth,  not  Brighton.  So  relaxing.  It  was 
the  year  that  girl  ran  away  with  a  man  in  a  car 
over  a  cliff.  So  romantic." 

"I  wonder  why  you  always  speak  as  if  nothing 
mattered,"  said  Lola,  looking  up  at  Drewitt,  her 
head  slightly  on  one  side,  her  eyebrows  puckered. 

"Do  I?"  He  gave  her  a  friendly  little  smile  that 
he  kept  for  his  particular  friends  and  intimates. 
"Perhaps  it's  because  I'm  devoid  of  romance." 

"But  are  you?"  she  asked  seriously. 

"When  I  read  Malory  or  Froissart  I  endeavour 
to  picture  myself  touring  the  country  on  a  cart-horse 
with  a  long  pole,  like  an  exaggerated  boy  scout, 
engaged  in  the  rescue  of  forlorn  maidens  and  the 
destruction  of  fire-eating  dragons.  I  confess  I 
cannot  see  myself  doing  it." 

"But  you  approach  everything  from  the  ridiculous 
aspect,"  she  said  smiling.  "Those  stories  always 
thrill  me." 

"Because   you   don't   see   their   artificiality,"    he 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

replied.  "You  see  only  the  handsome  and  gallant 
knight  seated  on  a  swift  charger,  risking  his  life; 
but  when  you  remember  that  knights  were  sometimes 
plain,  that  their  horses  were  heavy,  lumbering  crea- 
tures, and  that  their  combats  were  no  more  deadly 
than  a  football-match  or  a  glove-fight " 

"Please  don't,"  she  laughed.  "You  would  strip 
romance  from  a  honeymoon." 

"To  me  a  honeymoon  is  as  unromantic  as  a 
German  dinner,"  continued  Drewitt.  "It's  the 
stripping  of  the  tinsel  from  the  idol.  It  is  intimacy 
that  ruins  marriage,  intimacy  and  carelessness." 

"Carelessness?"  she  queried. 

"Yes,"  replied  Drewitt,  polishing  his  monocle 
with  great  care.  "I've  heard  of  men  selecting  for 
a  honeymoon  a  place  that  involved  a  sea  voyage. 
The  risk  is  criminal." 

"I  wish  I  weren't  so  stupid,"  she  said  in  mock 
despair.  "What  risk?" 

"The  risk  of  your  adored  one  having  a  queasy 
stomach." 

"Oh,  please  don't,"  she  protested.  "What  a 
dreadful  expression." 

"As  the  boat  gets  further  from  land,  the  beloved 
grows  greener  and  greener,  until  at  last  she  makes 
a  bolt " 

"Stop !    Oh,  please,  stop !"  cried  Lola. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  have  undermined  your  belief  in  the 
romantic,"  said  Drewitt,  "but  there  are  certain  facts 
in  life  that  must  be  faced." 


THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED  233 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  never  see  a  woman  with  a 
lover's  eyes." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  replied,  "I  should  see  her 
always  with  a  lover's  eyes.  In  an  east  wind,  I  should 
resent  the  redness  of  her  nose,  in  the  summer,  the 
flaming  patch  on  the  front  of  her  chest,  symbolical 
of  the  kisses  of  June.  Imagine,  Miss  Craven,  what 
must  be  the  feelings  of  a  Romeo  when  he  discovers 
that  his  Juliet  has  a  bilious  attack,  or  the  agony  of  a 
Pelleas  when  he  finds  that  Melisande  wears  false 
teeth,  or  again,  think  of  the  emotion  of  an  Abelard 
on  hearing  that  Heloise  has  chilblains." 

Lola  laughed;  but  before  she  had  time  to  speak 
Mrs.  Crisp  broke  in — 

"Such  dreadful  things,  Lord  Drewitt.  I  have 
them  in  the  winter.  Mr.  Quelch  has  them  also. 
Don't  you,  Mr.  Quelch?  I've  tried  everything. 
They're  really  most  painful.  Somebody  once  told 
me  it  was  eating  too  much  meat.  And  it's  so  difficult 
to  get.  I  believe  vegetarians  never  have  them." 

"Vegetarians  never  have  anything,  Mrs.  Crisp," 
said  Drewitt,  "except  babies,  shapeless  clothing,  and 
garden-cities." 

Mrs.  Crisp  laughed.  Her  laugh  was  a  thing  of 
startling  suddenness.  Half  closing  her  eyes  and  de- 
pressing her  brows,  she  gave  the  impression  of  one 
about  to  burst  into  tears.  Beresford  dreaded  her 
amusement;  it  was  so  depressing  in  its  expression. 

"Do  you  believe  in  romance,  Mr.  Quelch?"  en- 
quired Lola,  looking  across  at  the  medium,  who  had 
been  singularly  quiet  throughout  the  meal,  devoting 


234  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

himself  to  the  more  serious  occupation  of  eating. 

Mr.  Quelch  shook  a  gloomy  head. 

"There  is  no  romance  in  heaven,"  said  Drewitt. 
"That  is  why  marriages  are  made  there." 

"Romance  as  you  understand  it,"  said  Mr. 
Quelch,  looking  at  Lola.  "No;  the  great  romance  is 
on  the  Other  Side." 

"The  shady  side,"  suggested  Drewitt;  but  Mr. 
Quelch  again  shook  his  head  with  an  air  of  settled 
gloom,  as  he  proceeded  to  attack  the  peche  Melba 
before  him. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Lola,  "everybody  seems  to  be 
either  gloomy  or  cynical.  There's  auntie  and  Mr. 
Quelch  half  in  the  other  world,  and  Lord  Drewitt 
and  Mr.  Beresford  trying  to  prick  every  bubble  in 
this.  Poor  me,"  she  cried  in  simulated  despair.  "I 
feel  like  a  child  who  sees  its  toys  being  destroyed 
before  its  very  eyes.  You  make  me  feel  I  shall  never 
have  a  beautiful  idea  or  feeling  again." 

"My  dear  Miss  Craven,"  said  Mr.  Quelch,  swal- 
'owing  a  lump  of  ice  in  such  haste  that  his  Adam's 
apple  darted  about  wildly,  "my  dear  Miss  Craven." 

Drewitt  gazed  across  at  Mr.  Quelch,  who  had 
once  more  become  engrossed  with  his  peche  Melba. 

Beresford  pictured  Mr.  Quelch  dashing  after 
Lola  on  the  sands  at  Folkestone  as  he  had  done  a 
few  days  previously.  He  smiled. 

"Why  are  you  smiling,  Mr.  Beresford?"  she 
asked.  "Won't  you  share  the  joke  with  us?" 

"Richard  is  a  joke  unto  himself,"  said  Drewitt, 
unconsciously  coming  to  the  rescue.  "He's  the  only 


THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED  235 

ass  in  London  who  is  conscious  of  his  ears.  Aren't 
you,  Richard?" 

"You  speak  as  if  you  were  really  fond  of  the 
species,"  she  smiled. 

"I  suppose  I  am,"  admitted  Drewitt.  "I  always 
have  to  stop  and  rub  the  muzzle  of  a  donkey  when- 
ever I  see  one." 

A  moment  later  she  turned  to  Beresford  and 
murmured, 

"I  think  it  must  run  in  the  family;  don't  you 
remember  the  other  day  you  wanted  to  rub  my 
muzzle?" 

"Rub  your  muzzle  I"  he  repeated,  as  if  not  quite 
sure  that  he  had  heard  correctly. 

"Yes,"  she  laughed.  "When  I  said  I  was  glad 
I  was  not  a  cow." 

Before  Beresford  had  time  to  reply  they  were 
drawn  once  more  into  the  general  conversation. 

"We'll  take  coffee  in  the  ginter-warden,"  cried 
Mrs.  Crisp.  "So  pleasant.  I  love  music.  You  must 
come  and  talk  to  me,  Mr.  Berry.  I've  seen  nothing 
of  you.  Now,  Mr.  Quelch." 

Once  in  the  winter-garden,  Mrs.  Crisp  seemed  to 
forget  her  desire  to  converse  with  Beresford,  who 
sat  watching  the  others  talk.  Lola  made  several 
ineffectual  efforts  to  draw  him  into  the  conversation; 
but  Mrs.  Crisp  continued  to  ignore  him,  devoting 
herself  to  Drewitt  and  Mr.  Quelch. 

A  sudden  hush  in  the  talk  seemed  to  remind  her  of 
Beresford's  presence.  She  moved  over  to  where  he 
sat. 


236  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I've  just  been  scolding  Lola,"  she  said,  lowering 
her  voice  and  with  an  artificial  smile;  "so  indiscreet 
of  her.  Most  indiscreet.  What  must  they  have 
thought  at  the  hotel.  I'm  very  cross  with  her.  She 
should  have  come  back  at  once.  Poor  Miss  Brock. 
Such  a  great  sufferer.  She  has  it  so  badly  in  her 
legs." 

What  it  was  that  Miss  Brock  had  so  badly  in  her 
legs  Beresford  was  not  to  know,  as  Mrs.  Crisp 
broke  off  to  fire  a  short  burst  at  Mr.  Quelch.  A 
moment  later  she  turned  once  more  to  Beresford. 

"And  I  blame  you,  Mr.  Berry."  Again  Mrs. 
Crisp  turned  upon  him  an  automatic  smile  of  immac- 
ulate dentistry.  "You  should  have  sent  her  home. 
She's  so  wrong-stilled.  What  must  the  servants  have 
thought?  And  the  papers?  Such  odious  people. 
Journalists,  I  mean.  I  hope  she  didn't  bathe." 

"I'm  sure "  began  Beresford,  his  head  in  a 

whirl. 

"So  dreadful,"  she  continued  without  waiting  for 
a  reply.  "So  lacking  in  refinement.  You  never 
know  when  there's  a  tan  with  a  melescope.  Odious 
creatures.  I'm  sure  the  Queen  would  disapprove. 
I'm  told  they  sit  there  all  day.  The  men  with 
the  telescopes,  I  mean.  So  sweet  and  gentle. 
Such  a  mother.  Fancy  bathing  with  strange  men. 
She  ought  to  have  been  more  careful.  Lola,  I 
mean." 

"But,"  interpolated  Beresford,  "Miss  Craven 
didn't  bathe." 

"I  mean  staying  down  there  with  you.       Mr. 


THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED  237 

Quelch  was  shocked.  I  hardly  liked  to  tell  him. 

He's  so  sensitive.  I  remember  once "  Mrs. 

Crisp  was  interrupted  in  her  reminiscences  by 
Drewitt  rising  to  go.  She  turned  upon  him  full  of 
regrets,  gush  and  assurances  that  she  was  certain  he 
was  psychic. 

As  he  was  shaking  hands  with  Lola,  Beresford 
managed  to  tell  her  that  he  felt  a  relapse  coming  on, 
and  asked  if  she  would  spare  him  an  hour  or  two. 

She  shook  her  head,  a  little  sadly,  he  thought. 

"I'm  in  disgrace,"  she  pouted,  "and  I  must  be 
nice  to  auntie  to  make  up  for  Folkestone."  She  gave 
him  a  mischievous  glance.  "I've  been  having  such 
a  lecture  on  the  proprieties." 

That  was  all.  No  word  of  when  he  was  to  see 
her. 

"I  don't  know  which  I  most  dislike  about  Mr. 
Quelch,"  said  Drewitt,  as  they  passed  down  fhe 
steps  of  the  Belle  Vue,  "his  name,  his  moustache,  or 
his  accent.  I  like  cockneys;  but  not  in  frock-coats," 
he  added. 

Beresford  smiled  vaguely;  but  made  no  reply. 

"I  wonder,"  continued  Drewitt,  as  they  walked 
down  Piccadilly,  "why  it  is  that  all  men  with  gen- 
erous moustaches  seem  to  have  a  passion  for  thick 
soup."  Then  after  a  pause  he  added,  "Those  with 
dark  moustaches  apparently  prefer  white  soups, 
whilst  those  with  light  moustaches  select  the  darker 
fluids.  It's  interesting." 

But  Beresford  was  not  listening.  He  was  think- 
ing of  the  void  he  had  just  discovered  in  his  life. 


238  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Hitherto  he  had  been  aware  that  the  end  was 
inevitable;  but  without  actually  visualising  it.  He 
had  frequently  thought  about  the  time  when  every- 
thing would  be — well,  ended;  yet  somehow  he 
seemed  now  to  realise  for  the  first  time  facts  as  they 
were.  This,  then,  was  the  end.  Folkestone  had  been 
just  an  episode,  a  nine  days'  wonder.  She 

"That's  the  third  time  you  have  failed  in  your 
social  duty,  Richard,"  said  Drewitt,  reproachfully, 
as  he  lifted  his  hat.  "That  was  Lady  Peggy  Bris- 
towe." 

"Damn  Lady  Peggy  Bristowe!"  snapped  Beres- 
ford  petulantly. 

"Certainly,  if  you  wish  it;"  and  Drewitt  relapsed 
into  silence. 

"I'm  sorry,  Drew,"  said  Beresford  with  a  laugh. 

"I  was  afraid  she  might  not  approve  of  you, 
Dickie,"  said  Drewitt,  in  a  tone  that  caused  Beres- 
ford to  look  at  him  sharply. 

"She!    Who?" 

"The  aunt,"  was  the  reply.  "Aunts  are  the  very 
devil;  camels  are  love-birds  in  comparison,"  he 
added  as  he  hailed  a  taxi.  "Now  I'll  leave  you. 
I've  promised  Bowen  to  explain  to  Lady  Peter  why 
vegetarianism  seems  to  encourage  polygamous 
instincts  among  its  votaries,"  and  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  Drewitt  entered  a  taxi  and  drove  off. 

Yes,  that  was  it,  Beresford  mused  as  he  continued 
down  Piccadilly.  Mrs.  Crisp  disapproved  of  him 
and  he  was  to  be  dropped — he  was  being  dropped. 
Had  not  Lola  refused  to  see  him?  Had  not  Mrs. 


THE  NINE  DAYS  ENDED  239 

Crisp's  attitude  been  entirely  devoid  of  cordiality? 

Had  not ?  It  was  all  over.  He  had  been  a 

fool  to  come  back  to  London.  He  should  have 
turned  resolutely  to  the  open  road,  and  have  tried 
to  forget  her.  It  was  all  due  to  that  idiotic  some- 
thing in  him  that  he  had  never  been  able  quite  to 
analyse  nor  understand.  Anyway,  it  was  too  late 
now.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter? 

He  walked  on  aimlessly,  following  the  path  of  the 
least  resistance.  When  at  last  he  looked  about,  he 
found  himself  in  unaccustomed  surroundings.  On 
asking  where  he  was  of  a  tired  little  man  in  a  still 
more  weary-looking  frock-coat,  he  was  told  Pimlico. 
The  man  regarded  him  curiously,  as  if  to  be  in 
Pimlico  without  knowing  it  were  unusual.  It  seemed 
to  take  Beresford  quite  a  long  time  to  disembarrass 
himself  of  Pimlico,  and  to  reach  a  spot  near  Victoria 
Station  where  he  found  an  empty  taxi. 

Late  into  that  night  he  sat,  before  him  a  sheet  of 
paper  on  which  were  written  a  few  figures.  He  was 
face  to  face  with  a  problem — THE  problem. 
There  was  still  a  week  or  two  left,  however,  he 
decided,  as  he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and 
prepared  for  bed. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

DR.  TALLIS  PRESCRIBES 

FOR  hours  Beresford  had  been  sitting  looking 
straight  in  front  of  him.  It  was  past  noon; 
yet  the  breakfast-t  ings  still  lay  on  the  table, 
just  as  the  porter  had  brought  them  up  three  hours 
before.  Twice  the  man  had  entered  to  clear  away, 
only  to  be  sent  away  by  a  curt  shake  of  the  head. 
The  coffee  was  cold  in  the  pot,  the  eggs  and  bacon 
lay  a  sickly-looking  mess  bound  together  by  a  grey 
film  of  chilled  fat. 

On  the  corner  of  the  table  h  y  a  pile  of  money, 
notes,  silver  and  copper.  Was  it  only  that  morning 
that  he  had  counted  it  with  eager  fingers  and  tingling 
pulses?  Eleven  pounds  four  shillings  and  three- 
pence. 

The  figures  seemed  to  have  burned  themselves 
into  his  brain.  For  hours  he  had  sat  watching  them. 
They  were  everywhere.  They  stared  back  at  him 
from  the  opposite  wall,  they  blinked  at  him  from 
the  ceiling,  the  clock  ticked  them  into  his  ears,  and 
they  had  eaten  themselves  indelibly  into  his  brain. 

Did  sailors  feel  like  that  when  adrift  in  an  open 
boat  with  the  water-cask  empty?  He  wondered. 
Presently  his  gaze  left  the  opposite  wall  and  lighted 

240 


DR.  TALLIS  PRESCRIBES  241 

on  the  telephone  instrument.  For  a  second  the 
flicker  of  a  smile  relieved  the  shadows.  That  was 
the  link  with  Lola.  But  was  there  a  link  with  Lola 
now? 

Eleven  pounds  four  shillings  and  threepence! 

It  meant  that  the  end  was  very  near,  was  here, 
in  -fact.  The  shock  of  the  discovery  had  numbed 
him.  What  a  fool  he  had  been.  It  was  strange, 
though,  how  fate  seemed  determined  to  eat  into  his 
rapidly  vanishing  resources.  There  had  been  the 
expense  of  staying  at  the  Ritz-Carlton,  whilst  Lola 

was  at  the  Belle  Vue.  Such  rotten  luck,  then ; 

but  why  trouble  to  build  up  the  whole  fabric  of 
misfortune?  From  somewhere  at  the  back  of  his 
mind  he  recalled  a  favourite  phrase  of  the  little 
cockney  in  his  section,  "Any'ow,  that'll  settle  your 
little  'ash,  ole  son."  That  was  exactly  what  was 
about  to  happen.  His  little  hash  was  on  the  eve  of 
being  settled. 

Slowly  out  of  the  chaos  of  his  disordered  thoughts 
was  being  constructed  the  Great  Determination. 
It  was  as  if  an  anaesthetic  were  being  administered. 
That  little  tube  of  morphia  tablets  he  had  brought 
back  from  France  seemed  to  be  for  ever  dancing 
about  in  his  thoughts.  At  first  he  had  struggled 
against  it;  but  gradually  he  had  been  overcome,  until 
now  he  was  almost  reconciled  to  the  inevitable.  The 
will  to  live  was  dropping  from  him  like  a  garment. 
Everybody  had  a  right  to  decide  for  himself.  Had 
not  a  coroner  said  as  much  publicly,  and  he  was  the 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

high-priest  of  sudden  death?  Temporary  insanity, 
that  was  what  they  called  it,  temporary 

Again  his  eye  caught  sight  of  the  telephone.  With 
a  quick  movement  he  caught  up  the  receiver  and, 
without  pausing  to  think,  gave  the  number  of  the 
Belle  Vue.  He  would  tell  Lola  everything.  She 
would  understand.  He  would  work,  yes,  work  and 
carry-on. 

A  minute  later  he  replaced  the  receiver  upon  its 
rest  with  a  jar.  She  was  still  away.  She  had  gone 
away — to  avoid  him. 

During  the  previous  fortnight  he  had  telephoned 
time  after  time — always  to  receive  the  same  reply, 
that  Miss  Craven  had  gone  away  for  a  few  days, 
or  that  Miss  Craven  had  not  returned.  He  had 
written  twice;  but  again  no  reply.  It  had  really 
been  a  nine  days'  wonder,  he  had  told  himself  a 
dozen  times,  and  this  was  the  end. 

What  he  had  done  during  that  fortnight  he  did 
not  know.  He  was  conscious  of  having  gone  out 
from  time  to  time  for  meals;  but  for  the  rest,  he 
was  afraid  of  leaving  the  place,  lest  in  his  absence  a 
message  should  come  through  from  Lola.  The 
porter  had  come  to  regard  him  curiously,  so  per- 
sistent had  been  his  enquiries  as  to  whether  or  no 
the  man  had  received  and  forgotten  some  telephone- 
message  he  felt  sure  she  must  have  sent. 

He  had  given  instructions  that  letters  were  to  be 
taken  up  to  him  immediately.  He  seemed  to  live 
in  a  constant  state  of  expectation.  The  telephone- 
bell  caused  him  to  start  violently,  the  sound  of  the 


DR.  TALLIS  PRESCRIBES  243 

porter's  key  in  his  lock  would  bring  him  to  his  feet 
with  a  suddenness  that  sometimes  disconcerted  the 
man.  For  a  fortnight  he  had  been  living  on  the 
unsubstantial  diet  of  hope. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it;  Lola  was  determined 
to  drop  him.  It  was  Mrs.  Crisp,  he  told  himself, 
she  was  responsible.  It  had  been  a  fortnight  of 
torture,  a  fortnight  that  had  brought  with  it  the  con- 
viction that  for  him,  Richard  Beresford,  nothing 
mattered  but  the  Rain-Girl. 

A  ring  at  the  telephone  caused  him  to  start 
violently.  He  snatched  up  the  receiver. 

"Dr.  Tallis !    Yes,  show  him  up." 

A  minute  later  he  was  shaking  Tallis  cordially 
by  the  hand. 

"What  luck,"  he  cried.  "I'm  awfully  glad  to 
see  you." 

He  was  conscious  that  Tallis  was  regarding  him 
critically. 

"You're  not  exactly  a  credit  to  me,  young  fellow," 
he  said  as  he  dropped  into  a  chair  with  a  sigh  of 
content. 

"I  slept  badly  last  night,"  Beresford  explained 
in  self-defense.  "I've — I've  been  to  Folkestone 
"  he  broke  off  suddenly. 

"Folkestone!" 

"Yes,  you  recommended  the  place,  didn't  you?" 

"You  found  her  then?"  he  said,  looking  up  with 
interest. 

"Found  who?"  enquired  Beresford,  with  simu- 
lated indifference. 


244  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  he  said  quietly,  and  before  he 
knew  what  was  happening,  Beresford  found  himself 
telling  the  story  of  his  encounter  with  Lola  in  St. 
James's  Street  and  what  had  ensued. 

"And  now,"  he  concluded  bitterly,  "she's  dropped 

me,  dropped  me  into  the  bottomless  pit  of "  He 

look  across  at  Tallis,  the  picture  of  hopeless  despair. 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  you  were  right,"  he  said. 
"I  ought  not  to  have  tried  to  drag  you  back." 

Beresford  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"And  now,  what's  the  next  move?" 

"The  deluge,"  replied  Beresford  with  a  short 
laugh  that  caused  Tallis  to  look  at  him  narrowly. 
"I've  just  been  taking  stock  of  my  finances.  There's 
exactly  eleven  pounds  four  shillings  and  threepence. 
I  put  it  off  day  after  day,  and  it's  come  as  a  bit  of  a 
shock.  Still,"  he  added  reminiscently,  "there  was 
Folkestone." 

"I'm  not  sure,  young  fellow,  that  I  ought  not  to 
hand  you  over  to  the  nearest  policeman  as  a  dan- 
gerous lunatic,"  said  Tallis.  "What  the  devil's 
going  to  be  the  outcome  of  this  business  I'm  hanged 
if  I  know."  His  tone  was  not  so  flippant  as  his 
words. 

"The  outcome,  my  dear  ^Esculapius,  is  that  for 
once  in  my  life  I  have  had  a  rattling  good  time." 

"And  now?" 

"There's  always  that  little  tube  of  morphia  tablets 
that  I  brought  home  from  France,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh. 

"So  that's  the  present  state  of  the  temperamental 


DR.  TALLIS  PRESCRIBES  245 

barometer,"  said  Tallis  as  he  proceeded  to  stuff 
tobacco  into  his  pipe-bowl  from  the  jar  on  the  table. 

For  some  time  the  two  smoked  in  silence.  To 
Beresford  Tallis  was  always  a  soothing  influence. 
He  seemed  to  possess  the  faculty  of  forgetting  the 
other  fellow's  existence  until  spoken  to. 

"I'm  the  very  deuce  of  a  mystery  to  myself," 
Beresford  said  presently  with  a  wry  smile.  "Some- 
where I  suppose  there's  a  kink  in  me." 

"You're  probably  passing  through  the  sturm  und 
drang  of  romance,"  said  Tallis.  "It's  the  Renais- 
sance strain  in  you  coming  out." 

"I  wonder,"  murmured  Beresford  meditatively; 
then  after  a  pause  he  added,  "You  see,  Tallis,  no 
girl  ever  really  meant  anything  to  me  before.  I 
seemed  always  to  regard  them  in  a  detached  sort  of 

way,  just  as  Drewitt  does.  This  is I  wonder  if 

you  understand?" 

Tallis  nodded  as  he  gazed  into  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe.  Suddenly  it  struck  Beresford  that  what  made 
Tallis  so  easy  to  talk  to  was  that  he  always  appeared 
to  be  absorbed  in  something  else,  generally  his  pipe. 
It  was  much  easier  talking  about  such  things  to  a 
man  who  did  not  persist  in  looking  at  you. 

"I  seem  always  to  have  been  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  happen."  He  paused  and  looked  across  at 
Tallis  a  little  apologetically. 

*'The  latent  spirit  of  romance." 

Beresford  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"Go  on,"    said    Tallis,    catching    his    eye,    "I'm 


246  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I  suppose  that  was  it.  I  could  never  have  got — 
have  got  to  care  about  any  of  those  I  met  at  after- 
noon-teas, or  dinner-parties,  and  as  for  the " 

"Fluff,"  suggested  Tallis,  as  Beresford  hesitated. 

"Well,  as  for  them,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"But  look  here,  I'm  talking  the  most  unwholesome 
rot." 

"My  dear  man,  you  are  merely  succeeding  in 
being  a  self-conscious  ass,"  said  Tallis  casually,  as 
he  dug  into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  with  his  penknife. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact,  for  the  first  time  since  we've 
been  acquainted,  you're  beginning  to  talk  sense." 
He  paused,  folded  up  his  knife  and  replaced  it  in 
his  pocket. 

"We  medicos  find  romance  in  unaccustomed 
places,"  he  continued  a  moment  later.  "It's  a  seeth- 
ing spirit  of  unrest.  Every  one  seems  ashamed  of 
it.  I've  discovered  it  in  the  most  extraordinary  en- 
vironments. With  you  it's  a  case  of  the  Dream- 
Girl." 

"The  Dream-Girl?"  repeated  Beresford. 

"Every  mother's  son  of  us  knows  her;  but  she 
seldom  materialises.  When  she  does  it's  generally 
as  a  sort  of  Lorelei." 

"You're  a  queer  sort  of  fish  for  a  doctor,"  said 
Beresford  with  a  smile. 

"We  never  admit  of  the  feminine  equivalent  to 
the  Fairy  Prince,"  continued  Tallis,  "yet  at  first  we 
all  have  a  Dream-Girl  in  our  minds,  later  she's 
blotted  out;  but  that's  not  our  fault,  it's  theirs — 
some  of  them,"  he  added  as  if  as  an  afterthought. 


DR.  TALLIS  PRESCRIBES  247 

For  some  time  they  continued  to  smoke  con- 
tentedly. 

"It's  strange  you  should  have  mentioned  that," 
said  Beresford,  at  length.  "I've  often  wondered 
if " 

"What's  in  you  is  in  the  rest  of  us,  only  most  of 
us  are  not  so  honest  about  it.  Wasn't  it  Oscar 
Wilde  who  said  that  we  men  are  all  in  the  gutter; 
but  some  of  us  are  looking  at  the  stars.  You're 
looking  at  the  stars,  Beresford,  that's  all." 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  said  Beresford  a  little 
doubtfully. 

"With  you  it's  the  spirit  of  romance,"  continued 
Tallis  quietly.  "If  you  had  lived  a  few  centuries 
earlier,  you  would  have  gone  about  the  country  on 
a  horse  with  a  ten-foot  pole  asking  for  trouble.  You 
would  have  been  a  disciple  of  Peter  the  Hermit,  and 
every  other  uncomfortable  person  who  preached  the 
high-falutin'.  The  only  trouble  is  that  you  won't 
face  facts." 

"What  facts?"  demanded  Beresford,  almost 
aggressively. 

"Well,  for  instance,  that  you're  head-over-heels 
in  love  with  this  girl  and  you're  afraid  to  tell  her 
so.  You  expect  her  to  make  the  running." 

"Don't  be  an  ass." 

Tallis  relapsed  into  silence  again.  Several  times 
Beresford  looked  across  at  him;  but  he  appeared  to 
have  forgotten  everything  but  his  pipe,  at  which  he 
pulled  contentedly. 

"Do  you  seriously  expect ?"  began  Beresford, 


248  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

when  it  had  become  obvious  that  Tallis  was  waiting 
for  him  to  continue  the  conversation. 

"No,  I  don't,"  was  the  calm  retort. 

"Then  why "  began  Beresford. 

"Because  I've  known  you  long  enough  to  be  con- 
vinced that  you're  incapable  of  doing  what  to  any 
one  else  is  the  most  obvious  thing  in  the  world." 

"You  don't  know  her." 

"I'm  beginning  to  suspect  that  you  don't  either," 
was  the  dry  retort. 

"She  was  just  good  pals  with  me  at  Folkestone, 
because  I  was  a  sort  of  watch-dog,"  said  Beresford 
reminiscently.  "Since  then  she  has  dropped  me — 
gone  away,"  he  added. 

"She's  probably  become  self-conscious  owing  to 
auntie  having  given  her  a  wigging.  You  can  always 
trust  a  woman  to  know  how  to  touch  another  on 
the  raw.  A  high-spirited  girl  suffers  a  good  deal 
when  told  that  she's  made  herself  cheap.  In  all 
probability  that's  what  her  aunt  managed  to  con- 
vey." 

Beresford  shook  his  head  gloomily.  Tallis 
merely  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  didn't  see  the  way  she  looked  through  all 
those  fellows  at  the  Imperial,"  he  said,  as  if  deter- 
mined to  convince  himself  of  the  hopelessness  of  his 
position.  "It  used  to  wither  them,  all  except  that 
Jew  chap  with  the  Scotch  name.  He  was  too  moist 
for  anything  to  wither." 

"Well,  are  you  goin^  to  ask  her  to  marry  you?" 


DR.  TALLIS  PRESCRIBES  249 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  cried  Beresford,  sitting  up  as 
if  the  idea  had  startled  him. 

"Well,  there's  a  lot  to  be  said  for  celibacy." 

"Don't  be  an  ass,"  growled  Beresford.  "You 
know  I  don't  mean  that." 

"Sometimes  it's  a  little  difficult  to  discover  ex- 
actly what  you  do  mean,"  said  Tallis  with  a  smile. 

"She  thinks  me  different  from  other  men " 

"She  always  does,"  drily. 

Beresford  walked  over  to  the  fireplace  and,  with 
unnecessary  vigour,  proceeded  to  knock  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe.  'Returning  to  his  chair  he  reached 
for  the  tobacco-jar. 

"I  don't  want  her  to  think "  he  began  as  he 

proceeded  mechanically  to  fill  his  pipe,  then  he 
stopped. 

"That  you're  after  the  money,"  suggested  Tallis. 
"Couldn't  you  somehow  manage  to  convey  to  her 
that  she,  and  not  her  millions,  is  'the  goods'?" 

"No,  I  can't,  and  what's  more,  I  won't,"  snapped 
Beresford  irritably. 

"That  ten-foot  pole  again,  young  fellow,"  smiled 
Tallis.  "You're  going  to  sacrifice  your  only  chance 
of  happiness  for  an  abstract  code  of  honour.  Well, 
it's  your  funeral;  but  I'm  sorry.  What's  it  to  be?" 

"There  are  always  the  tablets,"  saici  Beresford 
grimly. 

"Yes,  there  are  always  the  tablets;  but  somehow 
I  don't  think  that  would  be  the  way  to  her  heart." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Beresford 
quickly. 


250  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I  think  she's  of  the  strong-man  school,  the  see- 
it-through-at-any-price,  nail-your-colours-to-the-mast 
order,  the  little-midshipmite-business,  you  know. 
She's  the  sort  of  girl  that  would  never  hear  the  name 
of  that  splendid  chap  Gates  without  a  half-thought 
prayer.  There  are  some  like  that,"  he  added  cas- 
ually, as  he  pocketed  his  pipe  and,  selecting  a  ciga- 
rette from  the  box,  proceeded  to  light  it. 

"You're  not  going?"  asked  Beresford,  as  Tallis 
rose  and  stretched  himself. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  must  toddle,  my  son." 

"Don't  go  for  a  minute.  You  were  say- 
ing ?" 

"Merely  that  you  are  making  a  mistake,"  was  the 
smiling  reply.  "But  as  yours  is  a  nature  peculiarly 
adapted  to  the  making  of  mistakes,  there's  nothing 
unusual  in  that.  There  are  three  courses  open  to 
you  and,  of  course,  you  choose  the  wrong  one." 

"Three?"   interrogated  Beresford. 

"Marry  the  girl,  clear  out,  and  the  tablets. 
You'll  end  by  clearing  out,  although  you  think  now 
it'll  be  the  tablets." 

Beresford  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then 
laughed. 

"Have  another  whisky-and-soda,"  he  said. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Tallis,  "I  really  must  be  off." 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  Beresford,  as  they 
walked  towards  the  door. 

"I  understand  this  much,  that  like  all  idealists 
you  are  obsessed  by  the  thought  of  material  obsta- 
cles. Well,  good-bye,  and  the  best  of  luck.  If  I 


DR.  TALLIS  PRESCRIBES  251 

can  do  anything By  the  way,  there's  a  pal  of 

mine,  a  ship's  doctor.  He's  sailing  quite  soon.  I'll 
ring  him  up.  He'll  get  you  a  passage  as  purser  or 
something.  Here,  I'll  write  down  his  name." 

Tallis  drew  a  pencil  from  his  pocket  and  wrote 
on  the  back  of  one  of  his  own  cards: — 

"Dr.  Henry  Seaman, 
S.S.  Allanmore, 

East  India  Docks." 

"Thanks,"  said  Beresford,  taking  the  card;  "but 
*  don't  think  I'm  cut  out  for  a  purser." 

"No,  don't  ring  for  the  lift,  I'll  walk  down. 
"Bye,"  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  Tallis  was  gone. 

Beresford  closed  the  door  and  returned  to  his 
pipe  and  chair,  and  the  never-ending  riddle,  THE 
FUTURE. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  DELUGE 

WHEN  a  man  is  thinking  epics  it  is  difficult 
for  him  to  compose  an  ordinary  letter. 
Beresford  leaned  back  in  his  chair  frown- 
ing. For  fully  an  hour  he  had  been  engaged  upon 
the  unequal  struggle.  On  the  table  before  him  lay 
a  number  of  discarded  sheets  of  note-paper.  Some 
broke  off  suddenly  at  the  second  line,  others  ran  to 
the  end  of  the  first  page,  whilst  one  had  actually 
turned  the  corner  and  showed  two  lines  written  upon 
the  second  page.  . 

Had  ever  man  such  a  letter  to  write  in  all  the 
world  before?  Why  write  at  all?  Just  because 
he  had  behaved  like  an  ass,  there  was  no  need  to 
make  a  fuss  about  it,  as  if  it  were  a  reduction  in 
his  golf-handicap ;  yet  he  must  tell  her,  at  least 

"Damn!" 

With  a  great  air  of  decision  he  seized  the  pen 
and,  snatching  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  from  the  rack, 
wrote : — 

"Dear  Rain-Girl." 

Then  he  paused.  That  was  where  he  always 
paused.  There  were  innumerable  sheets  of  note- 
paper  on  the  table  that  testified  to  the  fact.  He 

252 


THE  DELUGE  253 

bit  the  end  of  the  pen.  He  felt  like  a  man  with  an 
impediment  in  his  speech,  who  all  his  life  had  been 
striving  to  say  "good-bye";  but  had  never  been  able 
to  get  beyond  the  preliminary  "gug-gug." 

He  added  a  comma  after  "Girl,"  then  he  made  a 
slight  alteration  in  the  tail  of  the  "R";  finally  he 
got  going. 

For  five  minutes  he  wrote  slowly  and  laboriously, 
then  picking  up  the  letter  he  read  it  deliberately, 
only  to  throw  it  ti  wn  in  disgust.  It  was  difficult  to 
strike  the  medium  between  the  flippant  and  the  sen- 
timental. He  had  a  horror  of  appearing  like  the 
heroine  of  a  melodrama  bent  on  secretly  leaving 
home,  who  for  five  minutes  stands  in  a  draughty 
doorway  bidding  good-bye  to  the  furniture.  No, 
there  must  be  no  self-pity  in  anything  he  wrote  to 
Lola. 

After  all,  what  did  it  matter  how  he  expressed 
himself?  All  that  was  necessary  was  to  tell  her 
that  he  was  g'ing  away,  and  that  in  as  few  words 
as  possible.  Once  more  he  selected  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  this  time  with  an  air  of  grim  determination, 
and  proceeded  to  write  slowly  and  without  hesita- 
tion : — 

"It's  the  end  of  the  holiday,  Rain-Girl.  In  a  few 
hours  I  am  going  away — ever  so  far  away.  Good- 
bye; even  a  midsummer  madness  must  end.  It  has 
all  been  rather  wonderful. 

"R.  B." 

With  great  deliberation  he  reached  for  an  en- 
velope, folded  and  inserted  the  note,  stuck  down 


254  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

the  flap  and  addressed  it.  Then,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  he  sighed  his  relief. 

For  the  next  half-hour  his  pen  moved  rapidly 
over  the  paper.  Letter  after  letter  was  written, 
read  and  approved.  He  was  engaged  in  putting 
his  house  in  order. 

He  found  himself  regarding  everything  with  a 
strange  air  of  detachment.  It  was  as  if  it  all  con- 
cerned another  rather  than  himself.  Lola  had  gone 
out  of  his  life — nothing  really  mattered  now. 

It  was  futile  to  indulge  in  vain  regrets.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  he  felt  that  Fate  had  played 
him  a  scurvy  trick  in  bringing  Lola  into  his  life  at 
a  time  when  she  could  mean  nothing  to  him;  but 
that  was  past.  Now  he  was  able  to  regard  every- 
thing in  its  just  relation  to  his  own  destiny. 

It  was  strange  how  easily  the  mind  seemed  to 
adjust  itself  to  new  conditions.  He  remembered 
how  in  France  his  first  instinct  had  been  one  of 
fear,  then  had  come  indifference,  a  soul-numbing 
fatalism,  finally  caution,  a  sort  of  gun-shyness  that 
had  come  with  the  full  realisation  of  the  awfulness 
of  it  all.  Would  the  same  mental  processes  mani- 
fest themselves  now?  He  was  certainly  in  the  in- 
different stage.  It  would  be  horrible  if,  at  the  last 
moment,  he  were  to  hesitate.  No,  he  must  cut  his 
loss  and  clear  out. 

"Dropping  down  the  river  on  a  nine-knot  tide." 
Somewhere  he  remembered  having  read  the  line. 
He  had  been  struck  with  it  at  the  time,  now  it  pos- 
sessed for  him  a  very  special  significance.  At  half- 


THE  DELUGE  255 

past  six  on  the  morrow  he  would  be  "dropping 
down  the  river  on  a  nine-knot  tide." 

That  morning  he  had  been  down  to  the  docks 
and  arranged  everything.  He  had  signed-on 
aboard  the  Allanmore  as  assistant-purser  outward 
bound  for  Sydney.  It  was  all  through  Tallis. 
What  a  splendid  fellow  he  was.  Dr.  Seaman 
seemed  to  expect  him  and  had  arranged  everything. 

He  looked  at  his  watch;  it  was  half-past  four. 
Rising,  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  went  out  into  the 
sunshine.  Just  why  he  did  it  he  could  not  have 
said.  He  strolled  along  Regent  Street,  smoking  a 
cigarette  and  enjoying  the  warmth.  Opposite 
Gerard's  he  encountered  Edward  Seymour,  gazing 
about  him  with  the  air  of  a  dog  that  is  to  be  called 
for.  Beresford  recognised  the  symptoms.  Ed- 
ward Seymour  was  shopping  with  Mrs.  Edward,  and 
had  been  left  outside. 

Seymour  nodded  in  his  usual  off-hand  manner. 
Beresford  decided  that  he  looked  more  than  ever 
like  a  sandy  ferret. 

"Edward,  you  ought  to  meet  Mr.  Deacon 
Quelch,"  he  said.  It  was  always  amusing  to  spring 
irrelevant  remarks  upon  Edward  Seymour,  who 
would  take  a  parliamentary  candidate's  promises  se- 
riously. 

"Who's  he?"  demanded  Seymour,  "and  why 
ought  I  to  meet  him?" 

"His  happiness,  like  yours,  Edward,  is  linked 
up  with  the  other  world." 

Edward  Seymour  screwed  up  his  face,  with  him. 


256  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

always  an  indication  that  he  was  puzzled.  At  that 
moment  they  were  joined  by  Mrs.  Edward. 

"D'you  know  Deacon  Quelch?"  he  asked,  fol- 
lowing his  unvarying  rule  of  appealing  to  his  wife 
for  guidance. 

Mrs.  Edward  turned  to  Beresford,  of  whom  she 
was  always  suspicious. 

"I  was  merely  telling  Edward  of  the  joys  of  the 
hereafter,"  he  explained,  "when  Aunt  Caroline  has 
gone  there,  that  is,  and  he  is  left  with  what  she 
couldn't  take  with  her." 

"Why  don't  you  get  something  to  do,  Richard?" 
Mrs.  Edward  felt  safe  in  carrying  the  war  into  the 
enemy's  country. 

"But  isn't  the  Ministry  of  Munitions  closing 
down?"  he  enquired  innocently. 

Mrs.  Edward  flushed. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"I'm  going  to  buy  some  flowers,"  said  Beresford. 
He  had  just  been  struck  with  the  idea  of  sending 
Lola  a  parting  gift. 

"For  Miss  Craven,  I  suppose,"  sneered  Edward 
Seymour. 

Beresford  smiled.  "Good-bye,"  he  said,  and  lift- 
ing his  hat  he  entered  the  florist's  shop. 

The  flowers  ordered  and  paid  for,  Beresford  con- 
tinued his  stroll,  choosing  thoroughfares  where  he 
was  least  likely  to  encounter  friends  or  acquaintance. 
Finding  himself  at  Baker  Street  he  decided  to  spend 
an  hour  with  the  squirrels  in  Regent's  Park.  It 
Was  very  difficult,  he  decided,  for  a  man  to  know 


THE  DELUGE  257 

how  to  occupy  his  last  day  in  England.  He  felt 
like  an  excursionist  who  has  come  south  to  see  the 
final  of  the  football  cup,  and  finds  himself  landed 
in  London  at  three  a.m.,  whereas  the  match  is  due 
to  start  at  three-thirty  p.m. 

At  half-past  six  he  was  back  at  his  chambers. 
For  half  an  hour  he  glanced  over  the  newspapers  he 
had  brought  in  with  him,  and  then  proceeded  lei- 
surely to  dress.  By  a  quarter  to  eight  he  was  ready. 
Picking  up  the  letters  he  had  writen,  his  gloves  and 
stick,  he  walked  down  the  stairs  rather  than  ring 
for  the  lift.  Giving  the  porter  the  letters  and  half- 
a-crown,  he  told  him  to  have  them  stamped  and 
posted.  He  then  strolled  slowly  along  Jermyn 
Street  in  the  direction  of  the  Ritz-Carlton,  where 
he  had  booked  a  table  for  dinner. 

Sometimes  at  the  thought  of  Lola  a  passion  of 
protest  would  surge  up  in  him;  but  he  had  by  now 
reasoned  himself  to  a  state  of  almost  ice-cold  logic. 
That  morning  he  had  settled  matters  once  and  for 
all  as  far  as  his  future  was  concerned.  The  Chal- 
lices  were  noted  for  their  grim  determination.  His 
great-uncle,  the  Admiral,  had  been  known  as  "Bull- 
dog Challice,"  and  in  the  Peninsular  war  old  Sir 
Gilbert  Challice  had  fought  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able and  tenacious  rearguard  actions  in  history,  an 
action  that  had  drawn  grudging  praise  from  Na- 
poleon himself. 

Yes;  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  and  he  was  going 
to  see  things  through;  at  least,  the  old  brigade  of 


258  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Challices  should  not  have  cause  to  feel  ashamed  of 
a  mercenary  descendant. 

The  dinner  was  excellent,  the  temperature  of  the 
burgundy  perfect.  The  maitre  d' hotel,  himself, 
supervised  the  service,  and  when  at  half-past  nine 
Beresford  rose  from  the  table,  he  was  conscious  of 
a  feeling  of  artistic  content.  Yes,  he  would  run 
into  the  Empire.  It  would  bring  back  memories  of 
the  old  Oxford  days,  and  those  illicit  excursions  to 
London. 

He  was  not  particularly  interested  in  the  perform- 
ance; such  things,  as  a  rule,  rather  bored  him.  He 
waited  to  the  end,  even  for  the  pictures.  As  he 
passed  out  and  joined  the  crowd  moving  slowly 
westward,  he  found  himself  wondering  what  Aunt 
Caroline  would  say,  what  the  Edward  Seymours 
would  say  to  each  other  and  to  Aunt  Caroline. 
What  would  old  Drew  think? 

He  at  least  would  be  a  little  sorry,  he 

"All  right,  sir,  I'll  move  on." 

Beresford  had  almost  fallen  over  a  bundle  of  rags 
huddled  upon  a  doorstep. 

"Here,  hold  out  your  hand,"  he  cried,  struck  with 
a  sudden  idea.  Putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket  he 
drew  out  all  the  loose  silver  and  copper  he  had  and 
dropped  it  into  the  grimed  and  shaking  hand  that 
was  extended.  Then  he  passed  on,  conscious  of  a 
splutter  of  thanks  behind  him.  He  was  not  the 
only  one  up  against  things. 

What  would  Lola  think?  Would  she  be  sorry; 
would  she ?  He  gritted  his  teeth.  Here  had 


THE  DELUGE  259 

been  the  danger-point  all  along.  Time  after  time 
she  had  presented  herself  to  his  thoughts,  and  he 
had  shut  her  out.  Once  let  her  in,  he  realised,  and 
that  would  be  the  end — the  wrong  end.  As  he 
reached  the  entrance  to  his  chambers,  for  some  rea- 
son that  he  was  unable  to  explain,  he  turned  and 
looked  first  up  and  then  down  Jermyn  Street.  Yes, 
he  was  glad  the  tablets  had  not  won. 

He  pushed  open  the  door. 

"There's  a  lady  to  see  you,  sir." 

The  porter  had  approached  unseen.  Beresford 
looked  blankly  at  his  expressionless  face.  For  a 
moment  he  was  dazed. 

"I  showed  her  up,  sir.  She  could  not  wait  down 
here " 

"Showed  her  up  where?"  asked  Beresford.  Even 
he  was  conscious  of  the  strange  note  in  his  voice,  sug- 
gestive of  surprise  and  curiosity. 

"In  your  sitting-room,  sir.  She's  been  here 
nearly  two  hours."  The  man  moved  automatically 
towards  the  lift  and  Beresford  followed.  "She 
wouldn't  give  a  name,  sir,"  he  added,  as  the  lift 
stopped  with  a  jerk. 

A  lady  to  see  him.  Of  course,  it  was  either  some 
stupid  blunder  on  the  part  of  the  porter,  or  else  it 
was  a  dream.  Ladies  did  not  call The  por- 
ter crashed  open  the  gate. 

Beresford  passed  on  to  the  outer  door  of  his  flat. 
A  lady  in  his  sitting-room.  Wasn't  it  Drewitt  who 
had  said  something  about  a  rhinoceros  being  in 


260  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Lola's  bathroom?  Suddenly  he  found  his  pulses 
beating  wildly. 

Lola!  Was  it With  trembling  fingers  he 

took  out  his  keys  and  fumbled  to  get  the  outer  door 
open.  Why  was  he  so  awkward,  he  who  a  moment 
ago  had  been  calmness  personified?  Would  the 
wretched  key  never  find  its  way  in  and  the  door 
open?  Ah!  that  was  it.  Closing  the  door  quickly 
he  took  three  steps,  threw  open  the  sitting-room 
door  and  there 

It  was  Lola! 

He  stood  staring  at  her,  his  jaw  dropped,  uncon- 
scious that  his  hat  was  still  on  his  head. 

She  rose  from  the  big  chair  in  which  she  had  been 
sitting.  How  pale  and  slight  she  looked.  He  no- 
ticed that  in  her  right  hand  was  a  letter.  Yes,  she 
was  wearing  the  same  black  frock  she  had  worn  at 
Folkestone  and — yes,  red  roses,  too.  He  noticed 
that  her  cloak  was  lined  with  some  tint  of  amber, 
or  was  it  orange?  Then  suddenly  his  faculties  re- 
turned to  him  with  a  rush.  With  a  swift  movement 
he  threw  his  hat,  stick  and  gloves  on  to  a  chair. 

"Lola!"     It  was  a  sob  rather  than  a  greeting. 

Suddenly  there  had  come  back  to  him  with  over- 
whelming force  the  realisation  of  what  he  had 
planned  to  do.  He  was  like  a  man  who  has  just 
realised  that  he  has  passed  through  some  awful 
danger.  It  was  the  reaction.  It  was  the  great 
will  to  live,  and  going  away  would  have  been  death. 
Where  had  he  heard  that  before?  Yes,  he  remem- 
bered, Tallis  had  prophesied  it. 


THE  DELUGE  261 

"Lola!" 

At  the  cry  she  had  merely  held  out  to  him  a  let- 
ter. Mechanically  he  took  it.  It  was  the  one  he 
had  written  that  afternoon  and  told  the  porter  to 
post. 

"How "  he  began. 

"I — I  came  back  suddenly."  Her  voice  was  al- 
most a  whisper.  UI  felt  that  something " 

She  was  swaying  slightly.  How  deathly  pale  she 
was.  She  was  going  to  faint. 

With  a  swift  movement  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear  I"  he  whispered  passion- 
ately, and  the  only  reply  was  sobs  that  seemed  to 
tear  and  rend  her  whole  body. 

"But  why,  why  did  you ?"     She  looked  at 

him,  her  lower  lip  quivering. 

"Wasn't  it  better  than  becoming  the  Fortieth  Ar- 
ticle?" he  asked  quizzically. 

A  slight  smile  flickered  across  her  face.  She  was 
lying  back  in  the  big  leather-covered  arm-chair, 
Beresford  kneeling  beside  her. 

"It  was  so — so  unfair,"  she  said. 

"Unfair?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,  to — to  your  friends;  but  you  won't  now?" 
The  look  of  fear  was  still  in  her  eyes. 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it,  Rain-Girl,"  he  said 
steadily. 

"But  we  must  talk  about  it,"  she  persisted.  "We 
must.  Promise  me?" 

He  was  silent. 


262  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Promise  me,"  she  persisted,  leaning  forward 
and  putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Give  me 
your  word  that  you  won't?" 

"You  don't  understand." 

"I  do,  oh  I  I  do,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  you  must 
promise,  you  must.  I  felt  that  something  was  the 
matter.  I — that  is  why  I  had  to  come  back.  You 
must." 

The  first  emotional  tension  somewhat  relaxed, 
Beresford  found  himself  wondering  what  was  to 
happen.  Suddenly  he  remembered  the  letter. 

"How  did  you  get  my  note?  I  told  the  man  to 
post  it  to-night." 

"It  was  brought  round  by  hand,"  she  said. 

A  whirr  from  the  mantelpiece  caused  him  to  look 
round.  The  clock  was  about  to  strike  twelve. 

"Lola,  look  at  the  time.     You  mustn't  stay  here." 

"I  shall  have  no  reputation  now,"  she  said  with 
a  wan  smile. 

"I'll  take  you  back  to  your  hotel." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Dearest,  you  don't  understand."  He  shook  her 
in  his  eagerness.  "You  can't  stay  here,  it's  twelve 
o'clock." 

"I  know,"  she  said  quietly. 

"But  don't  you  understand?"  he  persisted. 

"Ummmm,"  she  nodded  her  head. 

"Please  get  up  and  let  me  put  your  cloak  on,  I'll 
take  you  round " 

She  shook  her  head  decisively. 

"But "  began  Beresford,  and  then  paused. 


THE  DELUGE  263 

"Not  until  you  promise,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Promise,"  he  repeated  dully. 

She  nodded. 

For  fully  a  moment  he  was  silent,  then  in  a  very 
quiet,  restrained  voice  he  said,  "I  promise,  Lola,  to 
do  nothing  until  I  see  you  again." 

"Honest  Injun?"  she  asked,  sitting  up. 

"Honest  Injun,"  he  repeated,  then  they  both 
laughed. 

"But  I've  signed-on  as  assistant-purser,"  he  said 
whimsically. 

"Signed-on  1"  she  repeated  with  widening  eyes. 

"Well,  it's  really  a  sort  of  wangle,"  he  explained. 
"I  shipped  as  assistant-purser.  Tallis  arranged  it, 
Lola!" 

"Ohl" 

She  drew  back  from  him  into  the  furthest  corner 
of  the  chair  behind  her,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"Lola,  what  is  it;  what's  the  matter?" 

"Please,  please  go  away,"  she  moaned,  still 
shielding  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"You  must  tell  me,"  he  persisted.  "What  have 
I  said;  what  have  I  done?" 

"I — I  thought  you  were " 

Suddenly  light  dawned  upon  him. 

"You  thought  I  was  going  to "  he  hesitated. 

She  nodded,  still  with  her  hands  before  her  face. 

"My  God!  and  that  is  why ?"  he  began. 

"Oh!  what  have  I  done?  what  have  I  done?" 
she  moaned. 


264  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Listen,  Rain-Girl,"  he  said  quietly,  kneeling  be- 
side her.  "That  might  have  been  the  way  out,  but 
for  Tallis.  I  told  you  about  him." 

Gently  he  drew  her  hands  away;  but  she  still 
averted  her  face. 

"Don't  you  see  what  I "  she  began,  then  sud- 
denly she  drew  in  her  lower  lip  as  if  to  still  its  quiv- 
ering. 

"You  must  go  home  now,"  he  said  gently,  "and 
I  must  see  you  in  the  morning." 

"But — but "  she  began. 

"Promise  you  will  let  me  see  you  in  the  morning," 
he  said.  "You  will?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  faintly. 

Very  docilely  she  permitted  him  to  place  her  cloak 
upon  her  shoulders  and  then  walked  to  the  door, 
still  with  averted  eyes. 

"Please — please  try  and  understand,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

For  answer  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  they 
went  out  together. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    MORNING   AFTER 

LIKE  the  summer  sun,    Lord  Drewitt  retired 
late ;  but  as  a  corrective  rose  later.     He  pre- 
ferred to  give  the  weather  an  opportunity 
of  definitely  establishing  itself  for  the  day.     In  his 
opinion  none  but  a  demagogue  could  take  pride  in 
early-rising  in  town  or  city. 

"There  are  only  two  reasons  why  a  man  should 
rise  early  in  London,"  he  had  once  remarked, 
"breakfast  and  exercise.  I  take  neither." 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  on  the  morning  fol- 
lowing Beresford's  endeavour  to  determine  his  own 
destiny,  that  certain  movements  of  the  bed-clothes 
and  murmurs  from  the  pillow  warned  Hoskins  that 
his  master  was  reluctantly  preparing  to  face  another 
day.  He  became  alert  and  watchful. 

After  fully  five  minutes  of  muttering  and  move- 
ment, Lord  Drewitt  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow 
and  looked  about  him. 

Hoskins  took  a  step  forward. 

"Hoskins,  I  believe  you  do  it  on  purpose."  He 
dropped  back  wearily  upon  his  pillow. 

"Do  what,  my  lord?"  enquired  Hoskins  in  a  voice 
so  thin  as  to  be  almost  a  falsetto. 

265 


266  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Look  so  infernally  cheerful,"  murmured  Lord 
Drewitt  wearily.  "Why  is  it?" 

Hoskins  radiated  good-nature  and  happiness,  as 
he  raised  his  hand  to  smooth  his  already  smooth  fair 
hair,  a  habit  of  his. 

"I  suppose  it's  because  I  have  nothing  to  worry 
me,  my  lord,"  he  said,  dodging  into  the  bathroom 
and  turning  on  the  water,  re-entering  the  bedroom  a 
moment  later. 

"I  wonder  what  you'd  be  like  if  you  had  two  thou- 
sand a  year,  a  title,  and  all  the  heiresses  in  two 
hemispheres  hurled  at  your  head." 

"I  should  make  the  best  of  it,  my  lord,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"The  best  of  it!  Good  heavens,  man!  how  can 
you  make  the  best  of  it?"  demanded  Lord  Drewitt, 
as  he  sat  up  and  proceeded  wearily  to  stretch  his 
arms  behind  his  head.  "How  could  you  make  the 
best  of  a  woman  with  the  face  of  a  horse  and  a  fig- 
ure like  a  Rubens  Venus  ?" 

"I  was  reading  the  other  day,  my  lord,  that  it's 
all  a  matter  of  digestion." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  read  those  damned  cheap 
magazines.  Wait  until  you  are  expected  to  marry 
an  heiress.  You  will  then  find  out  that  digestion 
has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it.  You're  get- 
ting sententious,  Hoskins;  you're  getting  confound- 
edly sententious.  I've  noticed  it  coming  on." 

Hoskins  eyed  his  master  imperturbably.  He  was 
accustomed  to  these  morning  monologues.  Among 


THE  MORNING  AFTER  267 

his  associates  he  referred  to  them  as  "His  lordship 
easing  off  a  bit." 

"Don't  you  know "  demanded  Lord  Drewitt 

as  he  slowly  and  reluctantly  swung  his  legs  from 
beneath  the  bedclothes  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed.  "Don't  you  know  that  all  progress,  material 
and  intellectual,  arises  from  discontent?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,  I  believe  so,"  said  Hoskins,  "I'm 
putting  out  that  new  morning-coat  and  vest  for  to- 
day, my  lord." 

"Hoskins,  you're  hopeless."  Lord  Drewitt  rose 
and  proceeded  once  more  to  stretch  himself.  "Here 
am  I  discussing  higher  ethics,  and  you  can't  rise  to 
giddier  altitudes  than  morning-coats  and  vests. 
You've  probably  been  reading  Carlyle." 

Hoskins  smiled  good-humouredly,  and  Lord 
Drewitt  disappeared  into  the  bathroom,  where  for 
the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  his  monologue  was  ac- 
companied by  splashings  and  the  rushing  of  water. 

"I  remember,"  he  said,  reappearing  and  slipping 
into  the  dressing-gown  that  Hoskins  held  out  for 
him,  "you  once  said  that  life  held  compensations. 
I  know  of  only  one,  your  coffee,"  and  he  seated  him- 
self at  the  small  breakfast  tray  beside  the  bed.  "It's 
the  only  thing  that  preserves  intact  the  slender  thread 
of  my  life." 

Hoskins  beamed  upon  his  master. 

"I  think  it  was  William  Blake  who  said  that  a 
man's  soul  is  expressed  in  his  work.  Your  soul, 
Hoskins,  demonstrates  itself  in  your  coffee.  I  can 
forgive  almost  anything,  even  your  damned  opti- 


268  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

mistic  expression  of  countenance,  when  I  drink  your 
coffee.  Here,  take  them  away,  I  don't  like  them 
put  on  my  tray,"  he  indicated  the  pile  of  letters  that 
lay  beside  his  coffee  cup. 

Hoskins  took  away  the  offending  letters  and  placed 
them  upon  the  dressing-table. 

Lord  Drewitt  was  possessed  of  a  constitutional 
aversion  from  opening  letters.  "My  executors 
have  my  sympathy,"  he  had  once  remarked;  "they 
will  also  have  the  bulk  of  my  correspondence — un- 
opened." 

"There's  a  letter  from  Mr.  Beresford,  my  lord; 
it's  marked  'Immediate.'  ' 

"You  know  I  always  refrain  from  opening  letters 
marked  'immediate'  or  'important,'  '  said  Lord 
Drewitt  reproachfully.  "It  means  that  they  are  im- 
mediate or  important  only  to  the  writers,  and  not 
to  the  recipients.  Your  knowledge  of  the  world 
should  have  taught  you  that.  You  may  open  it, 
however,  and  read  it  to  me." 

Hoskins  opened  the  letter  and  read: — 

,"DEAR  DREW, 

"I'm  off  soon  after  dawn  to-morrow,   and  I'm 
going  to  the  colonies,  perhaps  further,  who  knows? 
You  might  tell  Aunt  Caroline.     Sorry  I  hadn't  time 
to  bid  either  of  you  good-bye. 
"Here's  luck  to  your  nuptials. 

"Ever  yours, 

"R.  B." 


THE  MORNING  AFTER  269 

"Nuptials!  damned  offensive  term,"  muttered 
Lord  Drewitt,  then  a  moment  afterwards,  as  if  sud- 
denly realising  the  purport  of  the  letter  he  added, 
"Further  than  the  colonies.  What  is  further  than 
the  colonies?"  he  demanded,  turning  to  Hoskins. 

"There's  nothing  further  than  Australia,  my 
lord." 

"Isn't  there?  That  shows  you're  an  atheist. 
Here,  hand  me  those  trousers,"  and  Lord  Drewitt 
proceeded  to  dress. 

Suddenly  his  mind  had  become  alert,  there  was 
something  in  the  letter  that  puzzled  him,  particu- 
larly taken  in  conjunction  with  the  general  trend  of 
Beresford's  recent  remarks  about  the  future. 

With  unaccustomed  celerity  he  performed  his 
toilet.  Hoskins  had  never  known  him  more  quick 
or  decisive  in  his  movements,  and  marvelled  at  his 
unaccustomed  silence.  As  a  rule,  during  the  proc- 
ess of  dressing,  Lord  Drewitt  reached  the  culminat- 
ing point  of  his  "easing  off";  but  to-day  he  was  si- 
lent, his  only  remark  being  to  tell  Hoskins  to  order 
the  porter  to  ring-up  for  a  taxi. 

Lord  Drewitt's  habitual  air  of  boredom  had  van- 
ished. In  its  place  was  a  look  of  definite  purpose, 
with  something  suggestive  of  anxiety. 

When  eventually  he  drove  up  to  St.  James's  Man- 
sions, he  discovered  just  in  front  of  him  a  very  small 
boy  with  an  extremely  large  parcel  swathed  in  thin 
brown  paper. 

"Mr.  Richard  Beresford,"  piped  the  lad. 

A  porter  came  forward  and  took  it  from  him. 


270  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Here,  be  careful,"  said  the  boy,  "they're  flow- 
ers;" but  the  man  did  not  appear  to  hear,  having 
suddenly  caught  sight  of  Lord  Drewitt. 

"Mr.  Beresford  in?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  my  lord.  Perhaps  you'll  step  into  the  lift, 
my  lord,  and  I'll  take  you  up." 

The  porter  followed  with  the  parcel. 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Beresford  is  in?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  said  the  porter.  "He  has  only 
just  finished  breakfast." 

Lord  Drewitt  was  well  known  to  the  porter,  who 
had  instructions  always  to  show  him  up  without  any 
preliminary  announcement.  The  man  therefore 
opened  the  outer  door  of  the  flat  with  his  key,  and 
announced  the  visitor,  at  the  same  time  laying  the 
parcel  upon  the  table,  after  which  he  withdrew. 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  gazed  at  each  other, 
then  with  a  sigh  Drewitt  sank  into  a  chair  opposite 
his  cousin. 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  he  remarked,  "how 
you  manage  to  live  without  Hoskins." 

Beresford  did  not  reply;  but  pushed  across  the 
cigarettes  to  Drewitt,  who  selected  one  with  great 
care,  lighted  it,  and  the  two  continued  to  smoke  in 
silence. 

"Lunching  anywhere?"  enquired  Drewitt. 

Beresford  shook  his  head  and  proceeded  to  undo 
the  parcel. 

With  great  care  he  opened  out  the  sheets  and  ex- 
posed a  magnificent  shower-bouquet  of  white  and 
clove  carnations,  tied  with  broad  myrtle-green  rib- 


THE  MORNING  AFTER  271 

bon.  He  had  telephoned  to  the  florist's  to  send 
them  to  his  chambers  instead  of  to  the  Belle  Vue. 

Drewitt  looked  across  at  his  cousin  as  if  it  were 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  a  man  to 
send  himself  an  elaborate  bouquet.  Selecting  an- 
other cigarette,  he  proceeded  to  light  it  from  the  one 
he  had  only  partially  smoked.  As  he  turned  to 
throw  the  discarded  cigarette  into  the  fireplace,  the 
door  opened  and  the  porter  announced — 

"Miss  Craven." 

At  the  sight  of  Drewitt,  Lola  started  slightly, 
with  a  quick  indrawing  of  her  breath. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  looking  from  one  to  the 
other.  Suddenly  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  flowers. 

"How  delicious,"  she  cried,  then  turning  to 
Drewitt  she  enquired  mischievously,  "Did  you  bring 
them,  Lord  Drewitt?" 

"It  is  a  time-honoured  custom  between  Richard 
and  myself,"  said  Drewitt,  "never  tc  call  upon  each 
other  unaccompanied  by  elaborate  bouquets  of  this 
description.  I  was  just  asking  him  to  lunch  with 
me.  Will  you  join  us,  Miss  Craven?'* 

For  a  moment  Lola  looked  irresolute,  then  turn- 
ing to  Beresford,  said — 

"Shall  we,  Richard?" 

Beresford  started  at  her  easy  use  of  his  name. 

"You  see,"  she  added,  as  if  forcing  herself  to 
get  the  words  out,  "it  will  be  something  of  a  cele- 
bration. We — we  are  engaged."  She  was  gazing 
fixedly  at  the  flowers,  her  cheeks  a-flame. 

"I — I "   began   Beresford,    firmly   convinced 


THE  RAIN-GIRL 

that  this  was  the  most  ridiculous  dream  that  had 
ever  descended  upon  him. 

"Then  I  shall  take  no  refusal,"  said  Drewitt 
evenly,  giving  no  outward  sign  of  the  chaotic  state 
of  his  brain  under  these  repeated  hammer-blows  of 
surprise.  "I  have  to  go  round  and  see  my  tailor, 
and  on  the  way  I'll  engage  a  table  at  the  Ritz-Carl- 
ton.  If  I'm  a  little  late,  don't  wait.  You  under- 
stand, Richard?  I  shall  withhold  my  congratula- 
tions till  then." 

As  he  turned  towards  the  door  Lola  looked  up. 

"You — you  are  the  first  we've  told,"  she  said  a 
little  tremulously. 

With  a  smile  in  which  there  was  nothing  of  cyni- 
tism  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"You'll  be  very  happy,"  he  said.  Then  after  a 
pause  added,  "when  you've  educated  Richard;  but 
he  has  excellent  taste,"  allowing  his  eyes  to  wander 
on  the  table,  "in  flowers,"  and  with  that  he  left  the 
room. 

For  fully  a  minute  the  two  stood  looking  at  each 
other.  It  was  Beresford  who  broke  the  silence. 

"Lola,  what  have  you  done?" 

"I "  she  looked  about  her  a  little  wildly.  "I 

suppose  I — I've  proposed  to  you."  Then  she 
laughed,  a  strange,  mirthless  laugh. 

Beresford  stepped  across  to  her  and  led  her  to 
the  chair  just  vacated  by  Drewitt.  "Sit  down,  Rain- 
Girl,"  he  said  gently;  "I  don't  understand." 

He  had  once  more  gained  control  over  himself. 

"You — you  don't  seem  at  all  pleased,"  she  swal- 


THE  MORNING  APTER  278 

lowed  in  a.  way  that  suggested  tears  were  not  far 
distant 

"Why  did  you  tell  Drew  that?"  he  asked.  "You 
know  it's  not  true." 

"It  is,  it  must  be,  it "  She  stopped  suddenly 

and  raised  her  eyes  to  his  as  he  stood  looking  down 
at  her.  "Some  one  saw  me  leave  here  last  night." 

"Good  God!"  he  cried  aghast. 

"And — and  so  I've  had  to  save  my  reputation 
at  your  expense."  Her  voice  was  unnatural,  hys- 
terical. 

"Who  was  it  that  saw  you?"  demanded  Beres- 
ford  almost  roughly. 

"Sir  Alfred  and  Lady  Tringe;  they  were  driv- 
ing past  as  we  were  standing  waiting  for  the  taxi." 

With  a  groan  Beresford  sank  back  into  his  chair. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  want  to  worry  you,"  she  said  nervously. 

"Perhaps  they  didn't  see  you,"  he  said  hopefully. 

"They  did,"  she  said  with  averted  eyes.  "Their 
taxi  stopped  to  allow  mine  to  draw  up,  and  I  saw 
Lady  Tringe  point  us  out  to  Sir  Alfred.  It'll  be  all 
over  London  by  dinner-time."  She  looked  at  him 
from  under  her  lashes  as  he  sat,  his  arms  hanging 
down  each  side  of  the  chair,  the  picture  of  despair. 

"I'm  sorry;  but — but  I  had  to  do  it.  Are  you 
very  angry?"  she  asked  tremulously. 

"Angry!     I?"  he  enquired  dully. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  remember  all  he  had  told  her 
the  previous  evening.  The  knowledge  that  she  had 
not  received  his  letters,  or  his  telephone  messages 


274  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

had  been  responsible.  The  sudden  reaction  had  un- 
balanced him.  Little  had  been  said  of  the  coinci- 
dence of  two  letters  failing  to  reach  her.  Both  had 
felt  instinctively  that  the  responsibility  lay  with  Mrs. 
Crisp. 

"Please — please  don't  be  angry  with  me,"  she 
said,  and  a  moment  later  she  had  slipped  from  her 
chair  and  was  kneeling  beside  him.  The  touch  of 
her  seemed  to  reawaken  him  from  his  trance.  With 
a  swift  movement  he  caught  and  crushed  her  to  him. 

"Don't,  for  God's  sake,  Lola,  don't.  You 

Oh,  my  dear."  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  pas- 
sionately. 

With  a  little  sound  of  content  she  clung  to  him. 
Suddenly  he  became  rigid.  "Don't  you  see  that  it's 
utterly — that  it's  quite  impossible — it's " 

"Don't  you  think  you  might  get  to  like  me  in — 
in  time,"  she  enquired  archly. 

"Lola,  don't  you  understand?  I've  nothing,  lit- 
erally nothing  to  offer  you.  If  Drewitt  doesn't  turn 
up,  I  can't  even  pay  for  the  lunch.  I  haven't  the 
price  of  a  cab-fare.  I  had  my  pocket-book  stolen 
last  night.  I  only  discovered  it  this  morning.  I'm 
down,  down  and  out,"  he  concluded  with  something 
of  a  sob  in  his  voice. 

"And  yet  you  could  buy  me  those  wonderful 
flowers,"  she  said. 

She  leaned  forward  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
carnations.  Beresford  watched  her.  Everything 
was  coming  back  to  him.  Slowly  the  realization  was 
being  forced  upon  him  that  Fate  was  really  taking 


THE  MORNING  AFTER  275 

a  hand  in  the  game.  Why  should  the  porter  have  a 
friend  at  the  Belle  Vue?  Why  should  that  friend 
call  in  to  see  him  soon  after  Beresford  had  handed 
the  man  his  letters  to  post?  Why  should  the  eyes  of 
the  man  from  the  Belle  Vue  happen  to  fall  upon 
Lola's  letter,  and,  above  all,  why  had  he  offered  to 
take  it  back  with  him?  Again,  why  had  Lola  given 
up  her  stay  in  Surrey  and  motored  back  to  London? 

Then  there  was He  jumped  up  and  began  to 

pace  the  room. 

"Don't  you  see  what  I  am  doing?"  She  rose  and 
snuggled  into  the  corner  of  the  chair  he  had  just  left. 

"What  you  are  doing?"  he  repeated,  stopping  in 
front  of  her. 

"Yes,"  she  faltered.  "I'm — I'm  throwing  myself 

at  your  head  and — and "  she  flashed  him  a 

tremulous  glance,  "and  you  won't  help  me,  not  a 
little  bit,"  she  drew  in  her  lower  lip,  then  a  moment 
after,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  huddled 
up  in  the  corner  of  the  chair. 

In  an  instant  Beresford  was  on  his  knees  beside 
her. 

"My  darling;  oh  my  dear!"  he  murmured,  striv- 
ing to  pull  away  her  hands.  "You  know,  you  must 
know — you  do  understand,  don't  you?  Can't  you 

see  how  impossible  it  is,  how — how "  he  stopped 

miserably. 

"You've — you've  compromised  me  and  now  you 
humiliate  me,"  she  sobbed,  her  hands  still  shielding 
her  face. 

"My  dear — Rain-Girl — Lola — please  don't " 


276  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

He  paused,  incoherent  in  his  anguish.  "Oh,  please 
— please  don't,  Rain-Girl."  Again  he  strove  to  re- 
move her  hands,  but  without  success.  She  merely 
turned  her  head  further  from  him. 

Beresford  looked  about  him  wildly,  as  if  seeking 
for  inspiration  or  assistance.  What  was  he  to  do? 
What ? 

Suddenly  she  removed  her  hands — she  was  laugh- 
ing, yes,  laughing  right  into  his  eyes. 

In  his  astonishment  he  sat  back  on  his  heels  and 
stared,  unconscious  of  the  ludicrous  figure  he  cut. 

"Oh,  you  do  look  so  funny,"  she  cried  hysterically. 
"Please  get  up." 

Slowly  he  rose,  his  dignity  a  little  hurt,  then  see- 
ing two  tears  trickling  down  her  cheeks,  he  seated 
himself  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  drew  her  to 
him. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  gravely,  "I'm — I'm — all — 
oh,  everything's  so  muddled  up.  I  don't  know  where 
I  am — why  I  am.  Sometimes  I  think  I'm  mad — I 
suppose  I  am  really." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  tired  little  smile  softening 
the  drawn,  weary  look  of  her  face. 

"I'm  so  tired,  Jerry,"  she  said,  "I  haven't  slept  a 
wink,  not  a  little,  teeny  one,"  she  added  with  a 
momentary  flash  of  playfulness.  "Please  be  nice  to 
me.  It's  been  very  hard,"  she  murmured;  "so  hard 
to  make  you  like  me."  She  closed  her  eyes  wearily. 

"My  darling." 

Beresford  crushed  her  fiercely  to  him. 


THE  MORNING  AFTER  277 

"My  darling,"  he  repeated,  and  bent  and  kissed 
her  hair. 

Then  in  a  torrent  of  words  he  told  her  everything. 
How  he  had  come  back  to  London  to  find  her,  how 
he  had  gone  to  the  Ritz-Carlton  expecting  to  see  her, 
how  he  had  tramped  about  the  streets  on  the  chance 
of  encountering  her,  how  he  had  pursued  her  to> 
Folkestone  and,  finally,  how  he  had  welcomed  the 
way  out  that  he  now  shuddered  to  contemplate. 

"My  dear  I"  she  said  when  he  had  finished. 
my  dearl" 


CHAPTER  XX 
LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM 

I     THINK  my  pride  was  hurt."     Lola  looked 
across  at  Beresford  with  a  faint  smile.  "You 
see,"  she  continued,  "auntie  was  very  cross 
with  me  and  she  said  things  about  what  men  think  of 
girls  who — who "  she  broke  off. 

"But  why  did  you  go  away  without  a  word?"  he 
asked.  "I  thought — oh!  it  was  hell,  just  hell." 

"My  dear  I"  Her  eyes  contracted  as  she  looked 
at  him,  and  he  saw  tears  in  their  depths. 

"Don't  you  think  that  you  might  have  rung  me 
up  the  next  morning?"  she  asked  gently. 

"After  the  luncheon?"  he  queried. 

She  nodded. 

"I  did;  but  you  were  out." 

"Auntie  has  gone  away.  I'm  afraid  I  have  been 
very  ungrateful;  but  I  had  to — to  say  something 

after  those — those "  She  looked  across  at  him 

helplessly.     "Auntie  vows  she  will  never  speak  to 
me  again,"  she  added. 

Beresford  strove  to  disguise  the  relief  he  felt  at 
the  news  that  Mrs.  Crisp  was  to  go  out  of  Lola's 
life.  To  change  the  subject  he  suggested  that  they 
should  call  on  Lady  Drewitt  that  afternoon  and  tell 
her  their  news. 

278 


LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM  279 

"Oh!  yes,  let's,"  she  cried  eagerly,  her  eyes 
sparkling. 

"But  who's  to  pay  for  the  lunch?"  he  asked  gloom- 
ily. "Drew  has  evidently  forgotten  us,  and  I 
literally  haven't  a  penny.  I  had  five  pounds  in  my 
pocket-book." 

Her  eyes  danced  with  fun. 

"You've  got  to  begin  living  on  me,  Jerry,"  she 
cried. 

"Don't!"  There  was  something  in  his  voice  that 
caused  her  mood  instantly  to  change. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  she  cried,  "you  mustn't  feel  like 
that." 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence,  Beresford 
gazing  gloomily  at  the  end  of  his  cigarette,  she 
watching  him  anxiously. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  Jerry?"  he  asked  at  length, 
looking  up  and  smiling  at  her  a  little  wanly,  she 
thought. 

"I've  always  called  you  that  in  my  own  mind," 
she  said.  "Ever  since  I  was  sitting  on  that  gate  and 
you  laughed." 

"But  why?"  he  persisted. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  shook  her  head  vigorously. 
"You'll  learn  never  to  ask  me  why,"  she  added,  with 
a  swift  upward  glance  from  under  her  lashes.  "I'm 
the  maddest  creature  that  ever  was,  once  I  let  myself 
go."  Then  with  a  swift  change  of  mood  she  burst 
out,  "Oh,  Jerry,  do  try  and  understand  me  1  No  one 
ever  has,  and  don't,  please  don't,  ever  hurt  me." 
She  looked  across  at  him  with  eager,  pleading  eyes. 


280  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"You  see,"  she  added,  "I  don't  understand  myself, 
not  the  weeniest  bit  in  the  world." 

He  smiled,  still  unable  to  realise  the  strange  jug- 
glings  of  fate  by  which  he  had  become  possessed  of 
this  wonderful  creature.  A  few  hours  previously  he 
had  almost  consigned  himself  to  the  Great  Adven- 
ture ;  now  he  was  about  to  embark  on  what  promised 
to  be  an  even  greater  adventure.  It  was  all  too 
strange,  too  mysterious,  too  bewildering  for  a  man's 
brain  to  assimilate  in  a  few  short  hours. 

"Now,"  she  cried,  "go  and  get  your  hat." 

"I  can  get  it  as  I  go  out,  Rain-Girl,"  he  said. 

"Go — and — get — your — hat,"  she  repeated,  em- 
phasising each  word. 

"But "  he  began. 

"Jerry  I"  This  in  such  a  comical  tone  of  admo- 
nition that,  laughing  in  spite  of  himself,  he  rose  an£ 
walked  towards  the  door. 

Swiftly  Lola  beckoned  the  waiter,  paid  the  bill, 
and  was  at  Beresford's  side  just  as  the  man  was 
handing  him  his  stick. 

Turning,  he  looked  at  her  and  suddenly  realised 
why  it  was  that  he  had  been  sent  away. 

"Rain-Girl,"  he  whispered,  "I  think  we  shall  bt 
very  happy  when — when  I  get  used  to  it." 

"Am  I  as  bad  as  that?"  she  enquired.  "It  sounds 
like  a  new  pair  of  boots." 

"Will  you  stand  me  a  taxi?"  he  asked. 

And  then  she  knew  she  had  won. 

In  the  taxi  neither  of  them  spoke.  Beresford  was 
still  dazed  by  the  rapidity  with  which  events  had 


LADY  DREWTTT'S  ALARM  281 

succeeded  one  another.  He  was  conscious  of  a 
desire  to  get  away  to  some  wind-swept  moor  where 
he  could  think  things  out  for  himself.  A  few  hours 
ago  Lola  had  seemed  to  him  as  far  away  as  the 
stars;  now  owing  to  one  of  fate's  strangest  freaks, 
she  was  his.  He  felt  as  a  navvy  might  feel  on 
having  thrust  into  his  arms  the  crown  jewels  of 
England.  What  would  he  do?  Probably  stand  and 
stare  at  them  in  open-mouthed  bewilderment.  Per- 
haps   He  caught  Lola's  eye  upon  him. 

"It's  no  good,  Rain-Girl,"  he  said,  "I  can't  realise 
it." 

"Realise  what?"  she  questioned. 

"It,  everything.  This  is  not  a  real  taxi,"  he  con- 
tinued. "You  are  not  a  real  Rain-Girl.  I  am  not  a 
real  I.  I'm  just  like  the  navvy." 

"Like  the  what?"  she  asked  with  puckered  brows. 

He  explained  the  allusion. 

She  laughed. 

"Is  that  why  you  suggested  Lady  Drewitt?"  she 
asked.  "I  think  she'll  be  good  for  you,  Jerry." 

At  that  moment  the  taxi  swung  in  towards  the 
pavement  and  drew  up  with  a  squeak.  Beresford 
got  out. 

"Tell  him  to  drive  to  the  Belle  Vue,"  said  Lola. 

"But "  he  began  looking  at  her  in  surprise. 

"No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  with  decision. 
"I'm  not  coming  in.  Lady  Drewitt  will  bring  you 
back  to  earth." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  showing  the  disap- 
pointment he  felt,  then  conscious  that  the  door  of 


282  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Lady  Drewitt's  mansion  had  been  thrown  open  by 
the  watchful  Payne,  he  gave  the  taxi-driver  the 
address,  lifted  his  hat,  and  walked  slowly  up  the 
steps. 

"Her  ladyship  at  home,  Payne?"  he  enquired  in 
a  voice  that  convinced  the  butler  he  was  unwell. 

"I'll  enquire,  sir,"  said  Payne,  and  he  disappeared 
in  the  direction  of  the  morning-room. 

A  minute  later  Beresford  was  apologising  to  Lady 
Drewitt  for  so  early  a  call. 

"Sit  down,  Richard,"  she  commanded.  She  was 
always  at  her  best  in  the  morning-room,  Beresford 
thought,  sitting  upright  in  her  chair  like  an  Assyrian 
goddess,  an  expression  on  her  face  as  implacable  as 
that  of  Destiny.  "What  is  it?"  she  demanded. 

"Personally  I  think  it's  a  dream,"  he  said  as  he 
took  the  chair  on  which  Lady  Drewitt  had  fixed 
her  eyes. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Richard?"  To 
Lady  Drewitt,  all  deviations  from  the  normal  were 
suggestive  of  illness. 

Suddenly  some  spirit  of  mischief  took  possession 
of  him. 

"Well,  Aunt  Caroline,"  he  began  hesitatingly, 
"I'm  afraid  I've  got  myself  into " 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  There  was  both 
anxiety  and  asperity  in  Lady  Drewitt's  tone. 

"Well,  it's  rather  serious,"  he  began;  "I'm  afraid 
you'll " 

"What — have — you — been — doing  ?"    demanded 


LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM  283 

Lady  Drewitt,  in  a  tone  suggestive  of  the  great 
restraint  she  was  exercising  over  her  emotions. 

"I  hardly  like  to  tell  you,"  he  temporised,  seeing 
in  his  aunt's  eyes  fear,  fear  lest  he,  Richard  Beres- 
ford,  had  done  anything  that  would  compromise  her 
and  the  family. 

"Richard,  I  insist  on  your  telling  me  what  has 
happened." 

"I'm  going  to  get  married,"  he  said. 

"Married!" 

What  it  was  that  happened  Beresford  was  never 
quite  able  to  determine;  but  Lady  Drewitt's  figure 
seemed  to  undergo  some  strange  convulsion,  causing 
her  chair  to  recede  at  least  two  inches  and  she  with 
it.  Never  had  he  seen  surprise  manifest  itself  so 
overwhelmingly.  She  sat  staring  at  him  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  changed  into  a  camelopard  or  a  four- 
winged  griffin. 

"You  see,"  he  began  apologetically,  "I'm  twenty- 
eight  and  you  are  always  urging  Drew  to  marry." 

"Going  to  get  married !"  repeated  Lady  Drewitt, 
as  if  she  had  not  yet  properly  realised  the  significance 
of  the  words.  "Who— who  are  you  going  to 
marry?"  Again  there  was  the  note  of  fear  in  her 
voice. 

"She "  he  began  with  simulated  hesitation, 

"she's  a  girl  I  met  on  a  gate." 

"Met  on  a  what?"  almost  shouted  Lady  Drewitt. 

"Oh,  a  gate,"  he  repeated  evenly.  "A  thing  that 
opens  and  shuts,  you  know,"  he  added,  as  if  to  admit 


284  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

of  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding.  "It  was  the 
day  I  got  pneumonia." 

Through  Lady  Drewitt's  mind  there  flashed  the 
thought  of  some  designing  country  girl,  who  had 
entrapped  her  nephew.  Probably  she  had  helped 
to  nurse  him,  had  heard  who  he  was  and,  convinced 
that  his  aunt  would  see  he  was  well  provided  for,  had 
determined  to  marry  him. 

"Who  is  she?"  With  an  effort  Lady  Drewitt  re- 
gained her  self-control,  "and  what  was  she  doing  on 
a  stile?" 

"It  was  a  gate,"  corrected  Beresford.  "It  led 
from  the  high-road  into  a  meadow  and " 

"What  — was  —  she  —  doing  —  on  — a — gate  ?" 
Lady  Drewitt  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"She  was  smoking  a  cigarette,"  he  explained,  "and 
it  was  raining.  That's  what  struck  me " 

"But  what  was  she  doing  there  at  all?"  Lady 
Drewitt  drew  in  her  lips  until  nothing  but  a  thin, 
grey  line  was  visible. 

"She  was  tramping,"  he  explained,  as  if  it  were 
the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world  for  a  girl  to  do. 

"A  tramp !"  cried  Lady  Drewitt,  the  full  horror 
of  the  situation  seeming  to  dawn  upon  her.  "A 
tramp  I" 

"It  was  rather  a  coincidence,  wasn't  it?"  he 
smiled. 

"You're  mad,  Richard,"  she  cried,  "you've  al- 
ways been  a  fool;  but  now  you're  mad."  She  snapped 
her  jaws  with  an  incisiveness  that  made  him  shudder. 
"It  must  be  put  a  stop  to." 


LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM  285 

"Put  a  stop  to,"  he  repeated  vaguely.  "What 
must  be  put  a  stop  to?" 

"Your  marrying  a  tramp." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  put  a  stop  to  it,  and,"  he 
added  as  an  afterthought,  "you  might  get  to  like 
her." 

"Like  her!"    Lady  Drewitt  spoke  in  italics. 

"Perhaps  it's  destiny,"  he  ventured  with  resigna- 
tion. 

"Fiddlesticks." 

"But " 

"I  tell  you,  Richard,  I  will  not  allow  this  mar- 
riage." 

"But  suppose  she  were  to  insist.  You  see,  she's 
tather  fond  of  me,  Aunt  Caroline." 

"If  she  attempts  to  sue  you  for  breach-of-promise, 
the  case  must  be  compromised."  Lady  Drewitt 
spoke  as  if  that  settled  the  matter. 

Beresford  smiled  at  the  thought  of  Lola  suing 
him  for  breach-of-promise. 

"They  couldn't  fix  the  damages  high,"  continued 
Lady  Drewitt,  irrevocably  pursuing  her  own  line  of 
reasoning.  "You've  got  no  money." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to 
lend  me  two  shillings  for  a  taxi-fare,"  he  said 
gravely;  "I  literally  haven't  a  penny." 

"And  yet  you  propose  to  marry.  Are  you  mad, 
Richard?  Are  you  really  mad?"  She  leaned  for- 
ward slightly  as  if  to  enable  herself  to  determine 
with  greater  certainty  whether  or  not  her  nephew 
had  entirely  lost  his  reason. 


286  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"I'm  sorry  that  you  disapprove  of  my  marriage," 
he  said  meekly.  "I've  always  tried  to  please  you." 

"You've  done  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  you  know 
it." 

"I've  always  tried  to  please  you,"  he  continued 
imperturbably;  "but  I've  always  failed." 

"You  have."     She  nodded  her  head  grimly. 

"I  felt  that  I  ought  to  tell  you.  I'm  sorry  if  it 
annoys " 

"You've  done  nothing  but  annoy  me  ever  since 
you  were  born,"  was  the  angry  retort.  "You  were 
a  most  tiresome  child.  Your  poor,  dear  mother 
would  insist  on  giving  you  the  most  unhealthy  toys." 

"Unhealthy  toys?" 

"Yes,  Noah's  Arks  and  things  with  paint  on  them, 
and  you  licked  off  the  paint  and  were  always  norribly 
ill  afterwards." 

"I  suppose  that's  what's  the  matter  with  me  now," 
he  murmured.  "I've  been  licking  off  the  paint  from 
the  conventional  ideas  of  happiness,  and  it's  made  me 
horribly  ill." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  commanded  Lady  Drewitt. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Marry  her,  I  suppose.    I  see  no  way  out  of  it." 

For  a  full  minute  Lady  Drewitt  regarded  him 
suspiciously. 

"So,"  she  said  at  length,  a  note  of  triumph  in  her 
voice,  "you  are  already  regretting  your  folly.  Was 
it  through  this  girl  that  you  came  to  London?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  was."  He  gazed  down  at  the  point 
of  his  cane. 


LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM  287 

"Where  are  you  staying  now?" 

"To-night  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  Rowton's  Lodging 
House,  if  I  can  borrow  sixpence  from  Drew." 

For  a  moment  Lady  Drewitt  gazed  at  him  irreso- 
lutely, then  reaching  across  to  a  table  at  her  side,  she 
turned  the  key  in  the  drawer  and  opened  it.  From 
inside  she  took  a  case  containing  one-pound  notes, 
selected  two  and  held  them  out  to  Beresford. 

"No,  Aunt  Caroline,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head 
as  he  rose,  "although  it's  very  good  of  you.  Perhaps 
when  I'm  married  you  might  stand  godmother " 

"Richard!"  There  was  such  poignant  horror  in 
her  voice  that  he  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  himself. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  be  going  now,"  he  said. 

"I  want  to  know  where  I  can  find  you?"  There 
was  a  note  in  her  voice  that  convinced  him  she  was 
evolving  a  plan  to  save  him  from  Lola's  clutches. 
"I  shall  telephone  to  Drewitt." 

"He  knows." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  made  some  remark  about  marriage  being  the 
reckless  assumption  of  another  man's  responsibility." 

"Where  shall  you  be  staying?"  Lady  Drewitt  was 
not  to  be  diverted  from  her  purpose. 

"St.  James's  Chambers  in  Jermyn  Street  will 
always  find  me,"  he  replied. 

Lady  Drewitt  continued  to  gaze  at  the  door  long 
after  it  had  closed  behind  her  nephew,  whom  she 
was  convinced  was  mad. 

"Payne,"  said  Beresford,  as  the  butler  came  out 


288  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

bf  the  pantry,  "how  is  your  rheumatism,  and  will 
you  lend  me  sixpence?" 

"Will  I  lend  you  sixpence,  sir?"  repeated  Payne, 
in  astonishment. 

"I  asked  you  two  questions,  Payne.  How  is  your 
rheumatism,  and  will  you  lend  me  sixpence?  You 
merely  repeat  the  second;  that  is  very  feminine." 

The  butler  regarded  him  with  a  startled  expres- 
sion. 

"The  rheumatism,  sir,  is — is  a  little  better  to-day, 

and "  From  his  trouser-pocket  he  drew  out  a 

handful  of  silver  and  hesitatingly  extended  it. 

Selecting  sixpence  Beresford  pocketed  it  with 
great  deliberation. 

"Now  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper,"  he  said, 
"only  be  quick,  because  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

Payne  trotted  off  to  the  pantry,  re-appearing  a 
few  minutes  later  with  the  required  articles. 

Beresford  wrote:  "I.O.U.  the  sum  of  sixpence, 
Richard  Beresford." 

"That,"  he  remarked,  handing  the  paper  to  Payne, 
"is  as  good  as  a  banknote.  You  can  distrain  upon 
my  estate,  or  make  your  claim  against  my  executors, 
administrators  or  assigns.  Thank  you,  Payne." 

Just  as  Beresford  turned  to  the  door  that  Payne 
proceeded  to  open  for  him,  he  was  conscious  of  Lady 
Drewitt  coming  out  of  the  morning-room.  She  had 
obviously  heard  his  last  remark. 

At  the  corner  of  Curzon  Street  Beresford  hesi- 
tated. Lola  had  told  him  that  she  would  not  be  back 
at  the  Belle  Vue  until  late.  He  therefore  decided 


LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM  289 

to  call  in  at  the  club  in  the  hope  of  finding  his  cousin. 
On  entering  the  smoking-room  he  discovered  Drewitt 
in  the  clutches  of  Sir  Redman  Bight,  who  was  ex- 
plaining to  him  in  great  detail  why  woman  could 
never  become  a  determining  factor  in  political  life. 

In  his  cousin  Drewitt  saw  the  straw  at  which  the 
drowning  man  is  supposed  to  clutch.  With  a  mut- 
tered apology  to  Sir  Redman,  he  crossed  to  where 
Beresford  stood. 

"Richard,"  he  said,  as  he  reached  his  side,  "if 
ever  you  require  anything  of  me,  even  unto  half  my 
possessions,  remind  me  of  this  moment." 

Beresford  led  the  way  to  the  further  corner  of  thai 
room. 

"The  dental-chair,  foot-and-mouth-disease,  rabies, 
and  universal  suffrage,  all  have  their  place  in  life's 
chamber  of  horrors,"  murmured  Drewitt,  sinking 

into  a  chair,  "but  Sir  Redman  Bight "  he  broke 

off. 

"Never  mind  about  Bight,"  said  Beresford. 

"In  this  club,"  continued  Drewitt,  "every  man 
seems  to  have  a  theory  upon  something  or  other. 
Only  yesterday  I  was  talking  to  Sir  Damville  Brack- 
ett,  at  least  Sir  Damville  Brackett  was  talking  to  me, 
and  as  far  as  I  could  gather,  his  view  appeared  to 
be  that  the  real  cause  of  the  present  labour  unrest 
is  directly  traceable  to  golf,  and  the  fact  that  both 
players  do  not  use  the  same  ball  as  in  footer.  He 
really  was  quite  interesting  about  it.  But  of  your- 
self, Richard?" 

Beresford  proceeded  to  outline  what  had  taken 


290  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

place.  By  the  time  he  had  finished  the  waiter  had 
brought  the  two  whiskies-and-sodas  Drewitt  had 
ordered. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Beresford,  as  he  replaced  his 
glass  on  the  table  at  his  side,  "why  didn't  you  turn 
up  at  lunch?" 

"There  are  occasions,  Richard,"  drawled  Drewitt, 
""when  you  are  as  obvious  as  Streatham  Common, 
or  a  Labour  M.P." 

"I  see,"  nodded  Beresford,  "but  I  hope  you 
realise  that  you  left  Lola  to  pay  for  the  lunch." 

"As  bad  as  that?" 

"I  hadn't  a  sou  on  me." 

"It's  always  a  mistake  to  try  and  help  young 
lovers,"  said  Drewitt  with  resignation. 

"I  had  to  borrow  sixpence  from  Payne  to  get 
here,"  said  Beresford.  "I  gave  him  an  I.O.U.  for 
it." 

"My  dear  Richard."  Drewitt  leaned  forward 
with  interest.  "I  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  you 
got  here  for  sixpence.  I've  never  been  successful  in 
getting  anywhere  for  sixpence,  although  I  frequently 
try.  Once  I  tried  to  get  from  Piccadilly  to  Victoria 
by  omnibus,  and  got  to  Hampstead  for  fivepence; 
but  as  it  cost  me  four  shillings  for  a  taxi  to  get  back, 
I  couldn't  really  consider  that  a  fair  test." 

At  that  moment  a  page  approached,  telling 
Drewitt  that  he  was  wanted  on  the  telephone. 

"Page,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  boy  reproachfully, 
"haven't  I  repeatedly  told  you  that  I'm  never  here?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  piped  the  boy,  looking  up  into 


LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM  291 

Drewitt's  face  with  a  pair  of  innocent  blue  eyes, 
"but  the  lady  told  me  to  come  and  tell  you  that  she 
was  Lady  Drewitt." 

"Page,  such  ingenuousness  is  wasted  at  the  Diplo- 
matic Club,  you  were  meant  for  the  Church,"  and 
with  a  look  of  reproach  at  Beresford,  he  walked 
towards  the  door,  followed  by  the  grinning  page. 

For  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Beresford  smoked 
contentedly,  pondering  over  this  new  phase  in  his 
affairs.  When  at  last  Drewitt  returned,  he  sat  for 
fully  a  minute  regarding  his  cousin. 

"Richard,"  he  said  at  length,  "you  have  achieve^ 
what  I've  been  striving  after  for  years." 

Beresford  looked  at  him  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"For  the  first  time  in  her  existence  the  aunt  is 
experiencing  real  anguish  of  soul,  and  you  are  the 
cause.  I  congratulate  you." 

Beresford  smiled;  but  made  no  comment. 

"Incidentally  she  informed  me  that  you  are  about 
to  contract  an  alliance  with  a  gipsy.  I  assured  her 
that  I  would  endeavour  to  dissuade  you,  as  I  already 
possess  all  the  mats,  brooms  and  wicker-chairs  that 
I  require,  much  as  I  should  like  to  encourage  you  in 
your  new  vocation." 

"What  did  she  say?"  enquired  Beresford  lazily. 

"She  said  things,  Richard,  that  should  not  be 
allowed  to  pass  over  even  a  private-line  connecting 
a  woman's  club  with  the  Suffragette  Headquarters. 
She  stripped  life  of  its  adornments,  attacked  Lloyd 
George  and  the  Kaiser  with  marked  impartiality. 
She  deplored  the  rise  of  democracy  and  the  payment 


292  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

of  M.P.'s.  She  reproached  Nature  for  her  obsolete 
methods  in  providing  for  the  continuance  of  the  race. 
She  held  up  to  the  open  light  of  day  your  iniquitous 
conduct  in  proposing  to  marry  a  road-girl.  She 
implied  that  I  was  responsible  for  your  determina- 
tion, stating  in  clear  and  unambiguous  terms  that  I 
exercise  an  evil  influence  upon  you.  She  suggested 
that  no  man  could  know  me  without  wanting  to 
marry  a  road-girl,  tramp  or  whatever  it  was  she  had 
in  mind." 

Drewitt  paused  to  sip  his  whisky-and-soda.  With 
a  sigh  of  weariness  he  continued: 

"She  asked  me  if  she  were  expected  to  keep  you 
iand  your  wife  to-be,  together  with  any  infantile  com- 
plications that  might  arise  out  of  the  union.  I 
assured  her  that  I  was  not  in  your  confidence  to  that 
extent.  Then  in  a  voice  that  caused  the  wire  to  throb 
she  asked  who  was  to  keep  you  and  your  vagabond 
wife;  the  expression  is  hers.  Personally,  I  dis- 
claimed any  such  intention,  pointing  out  that  it  would 
be  neither  delicate  nor  decent  for  a  peer  of  the  realm 
to  keep  another  man's  wife.  It  was  at  this  juncture 
that  she  accused  me  of  coarseness  and  a  lack  of  that 
refinement  which,  as  far  as  I  could  gather,  forms  the 
most  attractive  bait  for  unsophisticated  heiresses." 

Drewitt  paused  to  light  a  cigarette  and  once  more 
sip  his  whisky-and-soda. 

"At  last,"  he  continued,  "I  had  to  remind  her  that 
this  was  the  Diplomatic  Club,  where  no  one  ever 
speaks  his  mind  or  conveys  facts  except  in  a  form 
disguised  beyond  all  recognition.  Finally,  she  or- 


LADY  DREWITT'S  ALARM  293 

dered  me  to  seek  you  out  and  restrain  you.  Now, 
Richard,  speaking  as  man  to  man,  and  as  friends, 
not  to  say  cousins,  how  do  you  think  I  had  better 
proceed  to  restrain  you?"  Fixing  his  glass  more 
firmly  in  his  right  eye,  Drewitt  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  surveyed  Beresford. 

"I  think  I'll  push  off  now,  Drew,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing as  he  rose.  "By  the  way,  I'm  dining  with  Lola 
at  the  Belle  Vue  to-night,  why  not  come?" 

"I've  been  ordered  to  dine  at  Curzon  Street;  but 
I'll  run  in  on  my  way  back  to  the  club,"  he  replied. 
"I  think  I'll  come  with  you  now.  I  can  see  old  Sir 
Redman  has  got  his  eye  on  me." 

At  the  door  of  the  club  they  parted,  Drewitt  turn- 
ing west  and  Beresford  walking  up  Piccadilly  in 
direction  of  Jermyn  Street. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR 


1     THINK  you  have  been  very  cruel,  Jerry." 
Lola  looked  at  Beresford  reproachfully,  then 
suddenly  turned  her  head  aside,  conscious 
of  a  twitching  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  winter-garden  of  the  Belle 
Vue  after  dinner,  and  Beresford  had  just  finished 
telling  her  of  his  call  upon  Lady  Drewitt. 

"Cruel!"  he  repeated  uncomprehendingly.  "How 
cruel?" 

"Don't  you  see  what  it  would  mean  to  her  if 
?"  she  broke  off. 

"But  she  hasn't  got  to  live  with  you,"  he  pro- 
tested. 

She  lowered  her  eyes,  and  a  faint  blush  stole  into 
her  cheeks. 

"It  was  cruel,"  she  said  quietly;  "it  was  very  cruel 

and — and "     Again  the  corners  of  her  mouth 

twitched  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to   control  them. 

"I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say,"  he  cried 
boyishly. 

"No  you  don't." 

294 


LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR        295 

"Yes  I  do.    Will  you  bet?" 

She  nodded. 

"How  much?" 

"Five  pounds." 

"Right." 

"What  was  it,  then?"     asked  Lola. 

"That  I  left  Aunt  Caroline  to  liquidate  my  I.O.U. 
to  Payne." 

She  opened  her  bag  and  proceeded  to  count  out 
five  one-pound  treasury  notes. 

"Rain-Girl,  don't." 

She  looked  at  him  keenly,  startled  at  his  tone, 
and  saw  the  hard,  set  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"But  it  was  a  bet." 

"Please  don't,"  he  said  earnestly;  "at  least,  not 
yet.  I  know  it's  stupid;  but " 

She  looked  at  him  with  smiling  eyes. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  "Drew  sent  me 
round  fifty  pounds  this  afternoon." 

"Very  well,  then,  to-morrow  I  shall  go  round  to 
Aunt  Caroline  and  apologise  for  you." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  there  was  something 
oddly  intimate  in  the  use  of  the  words  "Aunt  Caro- 
line." She  seemed  to  be  drifting  into  her  new  rela- 
tionship with  astonishing  ease.  He  envied  her  this 
quality.  For  himself,  he  felt  that  if  he  were  to  live 
for  centuries,  he  could  never  live  down  the  humilia- 
tion of  marrying  a  woman  with  money. 

"Shall  we  go  on  the  river  to-morrow?"  he  asked 
irrelevantly. 

"Oh  yes,  let's,"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands. 


296  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Lola,"  he  remarked  severely,  "you're  behaving 
like  a  school-girl." 

"Am  I?"  she  asked,  her  vivacity  dropping  from 
her;  then  a  moment  after  she  added,  "I  suppose  it's 
because  I'm  so  happy.  Oh,  I'd  forgotten." 

"Forgotten  what?" 

"We  can't  go  on  the  river  to-morrow;  I  shall  be 
calling  on  Aunt  Caroline." 

"Look,  here's  Drew,"  cried  Beresford,  jumping 
up.  He  had  caught  sight  of  Drewitt  being  conduct- 
ed towards  them  by  a  page.  Having  shaken  hands 
with  Lola  he  sank  into  a  chair. 

"Yes,  Richard,"  he  said,  "you  have  interpreted 
me  aright — coffee.  How  I  wish  Hoskins  were 
here." 

Whilst  they  were  waiting  for  the  coffee  they 
chatted  upon  general  topics.  When  Drewitt  had 
fortified  himself  with  two  cups  he  turned  to  Beres- 
ford. 

"Richard,"  he  said,  "have  you  given  a  full,  true 
and  particular  account  of  your  interview  with  the 
Aunt  to-day?" 

Lola's  smile  answered  the  question. 

"Then,"  said  Drewitt,  turning  to  Lola,  "I  must 
ask  you  what  sum  you  will  require  to  release  Richard 
from  his  engagement?" 

"What  sum  I"  She  looked  at  Drewitt  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"I've  just  returned  from  dining  at  Curzon  Street," 
said   Drewitt;   then  turning  to   his  cousin  added, 
"Richard,  you  owe  me  an  apology  for  that  dinner. 


LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR        297 

It  was  one  of  the  most  uncomfortable  I  have  ever 
eaten.  The  atmosphere  of  crisis  seemed  to  have 
penetrated  even  to  the  kitchen.  The  sole  was  over- 
done and  the  quail  wasn't  done  at  all,  and  the  Aunt's 
views  upon  romantic  attachments  were  positively  in- 
decent." 

"Hadn't  you  better  begin  at  the  beginning?"  sug- 
gested Beresford  quietly. 

"The  Aunt  seemed  anxious  that  I  should  begin 
before  the  beginning,"  he  replied,  "hence  I  am  here 
for  the  purpose  of  settling  with  Miss  Craven  the 
amount  she  will  accept  to  release  you,  Richard,  from 
her  clutches."  He  looked  across  at  Lola.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  dancing  with  amuse- 
ment. "By  implication  I  was  given  to  understand 
that  the  responsibility  for  your  faux  pas,  Richard, 
rested  mainly  with  me." 

"With  you  I"  repeated  Beresford,  as  he  looked 
up  from  lighting  a  cigarette. 

Drewitt  inclined  his  head.  "If  I  had  sought  to 
exercise  a  better  influence  upon  your  early  and  callow 
youth,  the  Aunt  thinks  that  this  would  not  have  oc- 
curred." 

"Has  it  not  occurred  to  her  that  possibly  Richard 
might — might  not  want  to  be  freed?"  asked  Lola. 

"Nothing  so  transcendently  romantic  would  ever 
strike  a  member  of  our  family,"  said  Drewitt,  shak- 
ing his  head  with  conviction.  "With  the  Aunt  mar- 
riages are  made  in  heaven,  after  satisfactory  enquir- 
ies have  first  been  made  on  earth,"  he  said. 


298  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

"Do  you  think  that  you  have  been  altogether  tact- 
ful?" asked  Lola  demurely. 

Drewitt  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  reproach- 
fully. 

"I  did  what  I  thought  would  be  best  for  Richard," 
he  said  wearily.  "I  even  quoted  verse,  something 
about  kind  hearts  being  more  than  coronets,  and  she 
stopped  me  as  if  it  had  been  Rabelaisian.  I  was 
relieved,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  for  I  never  could  re- 
member the  next  line.  I  then  went  on  to  explain 
that  the  two  things  a  man  must  choose  for  himself 
are  his  trouserings  and  his  wife,  they  being  the 
things  he  sees  most  of,  but  she  was  only  scandal- 
ised." 

"And  you  left  her  in  the  belief  that — that  I — 
j » 

"Was  a  female  vagabond,"  said  Drewitt,  filling 
in  the  blank.  "Richard  had  set  the  ball  in  motion, 
it  was  not  for  me  to  interfere  with  the  Aunt's  plans." 

"I  think  you've  both  behaved  abominably,"  said 
Lola  with  conviction,  "and  I  don't  wonder  that  Lady 

Drewitt "  She  paused  as  if  in  search  of  the 

right  expression. 

"Thoroughly  disapproves  of  us,"  suggested 
Beresford. 

She  nodded  her  head  vigorously. 

"Most  of  the  trouble  in  this  world,"  said  Drewitt, 
"proceeds  from  people  jumping  to  conclusions.  If 
a  man  dances  twice  with  a  girl  in  one  evening,  her 
mamma  looks  him  up  in  Who's  Who,  or  sets  on  foot 
enquiries  as  to  his  position  or  stability.  But  I 


LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR        299 

mustn't  dwell  upon  these  trifles,"  continued  Drewitt. 
"I  have  to  report  to  the  Aunt  to-night  by  telephone 
the  result  of  my  interview  with  Richard.  I'm  sup- 
posed to  obtain  the  lady's  address  and  proceed  post 
haste  and  forbid  the  banns." 

"I  shall  go  and  see  Lady  Drewitt  to-morrow 
afternoon,"  said  Lola  with  decision.  "I  think  you've 
both  treated  her  horribly,  and  I'm  very  cross  about 
it." 

"But,  Lola,"  began  Beresford. 

"It's  no  good,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  but 
smiling.  "I'm  very  cross." 

That  night  Drewitt  telephoned  to  his  aunt  the 
astounding  news  that  the  young  person,  as  she  called 
her  nephew's  fiancee,  would  call  upon  her  on  the 
following  afternoon.  Her  first  instinct  was  to  refuse 
to  see  the  girl;  but  wiser  counsels  prevailed,  and 
Payne  was  instructed  accordingly. 


"I  feel  as  if  the  whole  world  has  turned  topsy- 
turvy. Auntie  has  thrown  me  over  in  despair  and 
gone  to  Yorkshire,  Mr.  Quelch  has  already  probably 
filled  the  niche  he  had  reserved  for  me  in  the  other 
world,  and " 

"To  add  to  your  misfortunes  I  am  going  to  marry 
you,"  said  Beresford  with  a  smile. 

Her  eyes  answered  him. 

Beresford  had  striven  to  disguise  the  genuine  re- 
lief he  felt  at  the  disappearance  from  his  horizon  of 


800  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

Mrs.  Crisp.  What  had  actually  taken  place  Lola 
would  not  tell  him;  but  he  was  aware  that  he  had 
been  the  bone  of  contention.  He  was  already  begin- 
ning to  make  discoveries  about  Lola.  She  could  keep 
her  own  counsel.  What  had  happened  at  her  inter- 
view with  Lady  Drewitt  he  could  not  discover.  His 
most  subtle  and  persistent  questions  she  met  either 
with  a  smile  or  an  obvious  evasion.  All  he  could 
gather  was  that  the  interview  had,  from  Lola's  point 
of  view,  been  eminently  satisfactory,  and  that  he, 
Beresford,  had  been  forgiven. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Lola,"  he  said,  digging 
his  stick  into  the  turf  at  his  feet;  they  were  sitting 
under  the  trees  in  the  Park  opposite  the  Stanhope 
Gate. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  find  that  you  have  married  a 
very  curious  person,"  she  said  wistfully;  then  with 
a  sudden  change  of  mood,  "You  won't  mind  my 
being  myself,  Jerry,  will  you?"  She  looked  up  at 
him,  anxiety  in  her  voice.  "I'm  an  awful  baBy 
really,"  she  continued.  "I  wonder  if  you'll  like  me 
when  you  know  the  real  me." 

"Beggars  mustn't  be  choosers,"  he  said  lightly. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"Jerry,"  she  said,  "that  hurts  just  a  weeny,  little 
bit." 

"My  darling,  forgive  me,"  he  whispered  as  he 
bent  towards  her.  "I  shall  get  accustomed  to  it  in 
time."  There  was  just  a  suspicion  of  bitterness  in 
his  tone. 

"I've — I've  got  a  confession  to  make,"  she  whis- 


LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR        301 

pered  shyly,  drawing  in  her  under-lip  and  refusing 
to  meet  his  eyes.  "I  couldn't  tell  you  before;  but  I 
think  I  can  now — now  that  there  are  a  lot  of  people 
about."  She  glanced  up  at  him,  then  dropped  her 
eyes  again  immediately. 

"It's  about  that — that  night  at — -at  your  rooms." 
Her  voice  trembled  a  little. 

He  nodded.    There  was  a  pause. 

"What  I  told  you  about  Lady  Tringe  was " 

she  hesitated  and  flashed  a  look  at  him  from  under 
her  lashes,  "was  a  fib,"  she  went  on  hurriedly.  "She 
wasn't  there  at  all,  and  nobody  saw  me.  Lookl 
there's  Lord  Drewitt,"  she  cried,  clutching  him 
excitedly  by  the  coat-sleeve,  as  the  figure  of  Lord 
Drewitt  appeared  crossing  the  road  from  the  Stan- 
hope Gate.  "Oh!  go  and  fetch  him,  do." 

With  his  head  in  a  whirl  Beresford  did  as  he  was 
bid,  returning  a  minute  later  with  Drewitt  at  his 
side. 

"I  have  just  had  the  refreshing  experience  of  see- 
ing the  ungodly  vanquished,  the  Philistine  smitten, 
and  the  biter  bit."  Drewitt  shook  hands  with  Lola, 
then  sank  into  a  chair. 

For  nearly  a  minute  there  was  silence. 

"Please  remember,"  said  Lola,  "that  I'm  a  wo- 
man, Lord  Drewitt,  and  curious." 

"As  we  are  to  be  cousins,  Lola,  I  think " 

Drewitt  smiled. 

"I  shall  call  you  Drew,  then,"  she  said.  "We're 
waiting,"  she  added. 

"I've  been  to  the  Aunt  to  announce  the  failure  of 


302  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

my  mission,"  continued  Urewitt.  "I  postponed  it 
until  this  afternoon,  just  as  I  always  keep  an  olive 
to  flavour  my  coffee.  I  confess  I  had  been  looking 
forward  to  the  interview.  Even  Hoskins  this  morn- 
ing noted  my  unwonted  cheerfulness  and  enquired 
if  I  were  unwell.  You  must  meet  Hoskins,  Lola, 
he  and  Providence  between  them  are  responsible  for 
me.  Providence  for  my  coming,  Hoskins  for  my 
being." 

"But "  began  Lola. 

"Hushl"  warned  Beresford.  "With  Drew  silence 
is  the  only  extractor." 

Drewitt  looked  reproachfully  at  Beresford.  A 
moment  later  he  continued. 

"I  left  the  Aunt  at  the  parting  of  the  religious 
ways,"  he  announced. 

"Whatever  do  you  mean?"  cried  Lola. 

"Hitherto  she  has  always  shown  herself  a  good 
churchwoman,  blindly  accepting  the  decrees  of 
Providence,  provided  they  did  not  interfere  with  her 
own  plans,"  he  added.  "To-day  she  is  asking  why  I 
and  not  her  dear  Richard  inherited  the  barony  of 
Drewitt  and  all  its  beery  traditions." 

Lola  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then 
laughed. 

"When  I  arrived  the  Aunt  was  explaining  to  the 
Vultures — I  should  explain,  Lola,  that  the  Vultures 
are  Edward  Seymour  and  Cecily,  his  wife — how  she 
had  always  felt  that  Richard  would  be  saved  by  the 
Challice  independence.  Richard  will  explain  these 
little  family  details  to  you  later,"  he  smiled.  "As 


LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR        303 

for  me,  I  can  do  little  or  nothing  without  Hoskins. 

"Teddy,  that  is,  Edward  Seymour,"  he  explained, 
"was  so  ill-advised  as  to  suggest  that  the  Aunt  had 
not  always  regarded  Richard  with  such  favour. 
Then  it  was  that  she  turned  and  rent  him,  slew  him 
with  the  jawbone No,  that  would  not  be  alto- 
gether complimentary  to  Richard.  She  told  him 
that  if  he  had  half  Richard's  brains,  he  would  try  to 
do  something  for  himself  instead  of  waiting  for  her 
to  die.  She  was  almost  ^Eschylean  in  her  grandeur. 
Poor  Teddy  literally  wilted,  and  Cecily  burst  into 
tears;  but  as  Cecily  invariably  bursts  into  tears  at 
the  least  possible  provocation,  that  was  not  re* 
markable." 

Again  Drewitt  paused,  then  looking  at  Beresford, 
he  said  casually:  "By  the  way,  Richard,  you  are  to 
be  raised  to  my  financial  status;  the  Aunt  insists  on 
allowing  you  two  thousand  a  year,  conditional  on 
your  good  behaviour." 

Beresford  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed  manner,  then 
he  suddenly  flushed  a  deep  red  and  looked  across  at 
Lola,  who,  however,  was  busily  engaged  in  digging 
holes  in  the  turf  with  the  point  of  her  sunshade. 

"She  regards  your  marrying  Lola  as  a  proof  of 
your  subtlety  and  commercial  acumen.  She " 

"Please "  Lola  glanced  up  at  him  pleadingly. 

"It's  all  right,  Lola,"  smiled  Beresford.  "It  makes 
a  bit  of  difference.  I  shan't  have  to  come  to  you 
for  everything." 

"It  was  the  two  thousand  pounds  that  laid  out  the 
Vultures,"  continued  Drewitt.  "They  felt  just  as 


304  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

the  rest  of  the  family  must  have  felt  when  all  that 
veal  was  wasted  on  the  prodigal." 

"I  think  it  very  good  of  Aunt  Caroline,"  said 
Lola,  "and  I  like  her." 

Fixing  his  glass  in  his  eye  Drewitt  gazed  at  her 
with  interest,  as  if  she  had  made  a  most  remarkable 
statement. 

"But  what  about  Edward?"  queried  Beresford. 

"Teddy  was  sublime."  A  flicker  of  a  smile  passed 
over  Drewitt's  countenance  at  the  recollection.  "He 
Was  subjected  to  what  I  believe  is  scripturally  de- 
icribed  as  'whips  of  scorpions,'  in  my  opinion  an 
entirely  inadequate  form  of  punishment.  His  little 
soul  was  extracted  from  his  body  and  dangled  before 
his  nose.  He  was  held  responsible  for  himself,  for 
Cecily,  and  by  implication  for  my  own  shortcomings. 
He  was  asked  what  he  had  done  in  the  war,  and  why 
he  hadn't  done  it.  Why  he  had  married,  and  why  he 
had  no  children.  I  pointed  out  to  the  Aunt  that  the 
morality  of  the  observation  was  a  little  loose;  but 
she  ignored  me. 

"He  was  told  that  he  was  depraved  and  demor- 
alising, although  poor  Teddy  would  not  demoralise 
a  three-inch  lizard.  He  was  held  responsible  for  the 
German  vacillation  in  connection  with  the  Peace 
Treaty,  and  for  the  shortage  of  high-explosive  shells 
in  1914.  In  fact,  there  was  nothing  evil  the  Aunt 
was  able  to  call  to  mind  that  was  not  either  directly 
or  indirectly  ascribable  to  what  she  gave  us  to  under- 
stand was  a  world-wide  catastrophe — the  coming  of 
Teddy. 


LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR       305 

"Teddy  wilted  and  visibly  shrank  beneath  her 
invective,  whilst  Cecily  continued  to  cry  quietly  to 

herself.     She  reminded  me  very  forcibly  of  Peter 
it 

"Peter  who?"  asked  Lola. 

Drewitt  turned  reproachful  eyes  upon  her. 
"Surely,  Lola,  you  are  not  a  Free  Thinker?'* 

Lola  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 

"She  reminded  me  of  Peter.  She  seemed  to  want 
to  convey  the  idea  that  she  had  never  previously 
even  heard  of  Teddy;  she  was  disowning  him.  Then 
came  the  supreme  moment,  pregnant  with  drama. 
Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  mouth  working 
uncannily,  little  points  of  foam  at  the  corners.  I 
wished  that  Cecily  had  brought  him  on  a  lead. 
Looking  about  him  wildly,  he  planted  himself  in 
front  of  the  Aunt,  and  looking  up  at  her  and  almost 
crying,  he  spluttered — 

*  'Damn  your  money,  and  you  too.  Keep  it.  I 
don't  want  it.  Take  it  to  hell  with  you,'  and  then  he 
disappeared. 

"Personally  I  think  he  went  through  the  door; 
but  I  cannot  say  with  any  degree  of  certainty,  the 
exit  was  so  dramatic.'* 

Beresford  whistled. 

"And  what  did  Aunt  Caroline  say?"  asked  Lola. 

"She  said  nothing,"  said  Drewitt;  "but  from  her 
looks  I  gathered  that  Teddy  will  have  a  sporting 
chance  of  at  least  some  of  her  money." 

"You  mean ?"  said  Beresford. 

"I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  engage  the  services  of 


306  THE  RAIN-GIRL 

an  old  company-sergeant-major  of  mine,  and  rein- 
force him  with  a  few  choice  specimens  of  Billings- 
gate. It  is  obvious  that  the  Aunt  is  susceptible  to 
rhetoric — when  suitably  adorned,"  he  added  as  an 
afterthought. 

Drewitt  turned  to  Lola  and  smiled.  For  some 
time  the  three  sat  silent. 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,  will  you,  Lola?  There's 
Ballinger,  and  I  want  to  ask  him  about  that  place  in 
Scotland." 

Beresford  had  jumped  up,  and  with  a  smile  and  a 
blush  Lola  inclined  her  head,  and  he  strode  off  in 
pursuit  of  a  little  fair-haired  man  with  the  strut  of 
a  turkey. 

"Only  once  in  a  blameless  life  have  I  ever  ven- 
tured upon  unsolicited  advice,"  said  Drewitt  remi- 
niscently  after  a  pause.  "In  a  moment  of  mental 
abstraction  I  advised  a  man  who  was  complaining  of 
loneliness  to  take  a  wife.  He  took  me  literally,  and 
the  husband  of  fRe  lady  took  half  his  fortune  as 
damages." 

"Is  this  a  confession,  or  merely  an  anecdote?" 
enquired  Lola  demurely. 

"Neither,"  was  the  reply.  "It  is  autobiography, 
and  history  is  about  to  repeat  itself."  Drewitt 
paused  and  looked  at  Lola  with  a  little  friendly  smile 
that  he  kept  for  his  special  friends.  "Richard  is  an 
ass." 

Lola  stiffened  slightly.  She  looked  straight  across 
at  him ;  but  Drewitt  was  examining  the  knuckles  of 
his  left  hand. 


LORD  DREWITT:  AMBASSADOR        307 

"But,"  he  continued,  "he's  rather  a  lovable  sort 
of  ass." 

Lola  smiled  at  him  with  her  eyes. 

"I'm  fond  of  Richard,  Lola,"  continued  Drewitt, 
"and  my  indiscretion  is  in  advising  you  to  be  a  little 
careful  about  money  matters." 

"Money  matters  1"  she  repeated,  screwing  up  her 
eyebrows  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"Your  happiness  depends  on  Richard's  capacity 
to  earn  money  for  himself.  Make  him  do  some- 
thing, go  into  politics,  write  books,  become  a  paid 
agitator,  anything,  in  short.  At  the  moment  he's  as 
sore  as  a  vanquished  heavy-weight.  It  will  help  his 
self-respect.  Now  I've  done,"  and  once  more  he 
smiled  across  at  her. 

"Thank  you,  Drew,"  she  said,  "I  understand. 
You "  ' 

"Hullo!  what  are  you  two  up  to?"  cried  Beres- 
ford,  who  had  approached  unseen. 

"My  dear  Richard,  we've  just  been  discussing  the 
length  of  your  ears  and  the  loudness  of  your  bray," 
said  Drewitt  quietly. 


THE  END 


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